Holmes:Moriarty
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Jim's first client job is Sherlock's first real case. The worst of Sherlock's addiction runs parallel with the worst of Jim's boredom. Five years before they ever met, already they're closer than they realize. If it wasn't for all the symbolic art and sex-starved thieves and dead bodies piled up between them, maybe they'd see that.  Cover by the amazing Radarrun. Click in and look
1. Jim:Sherlock

_Jim_

It's happening again. Why is it happening again? How the fuck can it be happening again, I did everything it asked of me, why would it do this again? It told me to leave Dublin and I left and it told me to get better at the work and I got better and it told me to take on other people's jobs and I do that now and now it's back. Why, in the name of God, is it back? What have I done to deserve it?

I haven't moved in four hours. Everything's stopped. There's no reason to do anything.

It's the boredom again. The boredom is back.

And all you people are out there in the world going about your business, aren't you? You're talking, going to work, dancing, making tea, having it off, bitching about not having it off, wondering what's for tea tonight, mindlessly devouring everything from kebabs to the History Channel, blithely accepting everything, acting the maggot, answering phones, going on holiday, studying, spawning, raising spawn, picking spawn up from football and ballet lessons, letting Jamie Oliver make you feel like a hopeless bastard unworthy of the greasy, flabby skin you currently infest and begging James Martin to take it all back. That's it, tell the Hairy Bikers what the bad chef said about how you feed your kids. They look like they give good hugs.

Aw, Jesus, people, how do you do it?

Where do you get the mindless fecking energy to force yourselves through it all?

I can, honest to God, chart every crack and crater in the wall above the computer monitor. My foot has gone dead. My wrists hurt because, when everything stopped, my hands were on the keyboard, and I think I might be cutting off my circulation a little bit. It's just so hard to care.

My brain, the reliable old bastard that it is, gives the mental equivalent of a shrug and sighs, "Well, let's just fucking kill yourself, then."

This is what happened last time. Had myself a nice little niche carved out, very lovely flat in a decent part of Dublin, all sorted, money rolling in and never having to lift a finger except when I wanted to. Then the boredom. Then the casual invitation to suicide. I countered by trading up to London. It worked, for a while. Rinse and repeat, resulting in the move up to greater and more romantic criminality. Rinse and repeat and I'm taking on clients, sorting them out, operating an empire that danced when I clapped my hands and never saw the strings that held it.

And, for a time, it was good.

It was fucking beautiful.

And now here I am again, 'Just fucking kill yourself then'. I do genuinely believe that my brain thinks it's helping when it says that. Maybe it has some way of knowing that this is never going to stop. That the boredom never really goes away and I just find things that distract me from it for a while. Any new course I can take is just another quick fix, fending off the inevitable.

Non-existence is the only permanent solution to the boredom?

Yeah, maybe, and so bloody tempting. The psychology of it is dubious, but the logic is sound, and it's logic that's gotten me this far. Psychology is a notoriously dodgy science at the best of times. I say that not as a practitioner of that particular game of chance, but as a detached observer. I have visited nine men and women of the field in my life, two of them entirely by my own volition, and found them to be an especially sketchy bunch.

Four agreed that I am a remorseless psychopath in need of immediate institutional help and vast quantities of medication. Four is not a majority out of nine, so I wasn't hospitalized. Unfortunately they wouldn't give me the drugs as a home prescription either, though. Win some, lose some.

Two called security, and I left their offices, one called the police when I wouldn't, one tried to blow me right there on the couch within four minutes of us meeting and one ended up believing I was a figment of his imagination. Might have helped him out a bit with that. Might have been having a bit of fun there. It was his own fault; he said I feared physical contact and I made him believe that was just how he justified the fact that I was composed of nothing but air.

Sorry, how did I get to telling that?

Oh yes; logic. Simple logical steps.

There is nothing left in life.

Existing hurts.

Not existing will not hurt.

It's easy-peasy when you think about it. It's just I've got this horrible fucking genetic imperative which, as I cast about for some instrument with which to perform the act, starts screaming at me to find something to do.

The genes scream, and the logic shrugs and shakes its head, "Nah," and the genes go on screaming.

Somewhere in the middle, the bulk of my brain just stops. Ceases. Silent.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock<em>

My God, when will it shut up?

There are nineteen windows in the corner building, which has four potential ground level exits and nobody inside. The rust on the padlock on the main warehouse door suggests upwards of three years disuse, a fact which is contradicted by the near-silent swing on the _back_ door which isn't a door at all but a graffiti-rich plywood panel on a couple of B&Q hinges. No, Homebase; brighter quality of brass, higher nickel content. The broken glass in the concurrent alley is not shards but a fine powder suggestive of small vessels walked into the ground. High traffic area. Vials. Conclusion: drug dealers in operation in this area. Conclusion: trusted, respected, great deal of return custom. Conclusion: good place to score.

All that, by the way, in the space of about half a second, the remainder of which second was dedicated to the delicate last traces of lighter gas and hot metal that mean somewhere nearby someone is already cooking up.

Diacetylmorphine, opioid analgesic, sourced originally from the classic opium poppy, a rare, refined form of the early opium that any upper class English gent could munch away at to treat a cold or headache, then cut back down into a rank, brownish business with really terribly little of that same heady release that one associates with the writings of, for instance, Thomas DeQuincy or the mythos of Fu Manchu. Horrible stuff. Does horrific things to the human body, and under normal circumstances a normal person would have to be mad to willingly accept its withering kiss but you see, these are _not_ normal circumstances, I am _not_ a normal person and _Christ Jesus_ it shuts the bloody perpetual bloody noise _up_…

If you could hear it, you wouldn't blame me. I swear that to you. Ten minutes, _just ten minutes_, of this incessant _bloody_ noise and you'd be higher than Everest though you came to me the most upstanding, strong-of-mind and brave-of-heart soul that e'er did live.

Physical dependency is a thing you can combat. You can lock yourself away until the worst goes over, or you can have somebody do that for you, you can work it off gradually or do it all at once, but the _psychological_ side, that's more difficult. Hard to give a damn about the damage done to one's bodily form when one is so berated by the voice of one's own mind, which knows everything, which sees everything, which states it all aloud and knows the dealer is suffering at the moment from some encroachment upon his territories and knows the first girl it sees inside has had four hits today in consequence to four unscrupulous men and that the backpack supporting the head of the blond-haired boy with his hood pulled tight is not, in fact, all-his-worldly-possessions, but his schoolbag.

It's like it knows it's about to be gagged; it goes into overdrive. There are fourteen girders in the ceiling, the best exit is the fire exit beyond the broken-windowed office on the right, the window of which was broken no more than four weeks ago by the unworn sharpness of the shards and broken from within by the amount of glass scattered on this side.

The lighter isn't mine, I can't remember where it came from.

A three-side square of raw, torn wood on the floor shows where a stage has been torn out. In its history this building was a theatre. Then it was a munitions factory during the war; again, the markings on the floor give away the benches that were here and the age of the markings gives me the era and it is, then, logically, gunpowder which has stained the floorboards dark in places. Then it was used to store shoes.

But don't ask me how I know that.

At the sight of the cotton wicking up the bubbling brown, the bloody noise packs in those last brave efforts and snivels quietly to itself in the corner, seeming almost to say that it has only ever been trying to help.

Which is true. I genuinely believe that it believes that.

The needle fills with the ability to tell it to go to hell, and passes on its message to the puncture, to be carried by the vein to where it is needed and then-

And then.

And then.

It's so good.

There is no need to say any more than that it is so damned bloody awful gorgeous fucking wonderful good.

There's nothing else to know.


	2. Captivity:Freedom

_Sherlock_

It's round about the ninth joke about pigs and bacon that I realize I've been arrested. There can be no faster, surer way to sober, and not only that but to find that magic panic in the throes of which one's hangover might be put on hold. Perfect clarity, a heartbreaking nirvana in which I feel, like a hurricane coming, the approach of my brother.

Registered, systemized, my name through a computer, and he's on his way. Moving soundlessly across London in perfectly straight lines, soundless, weightless, passing through walls, the great black bat that is the shadow of my brother is coming, and ever so fast. Time is short. Must escape. It's only a bloody possession charge but Mycroft and the sickness are running their great race to see which can claim me first, then they'll reach me and meet and be stronger than ever in league with each other. There must be some exit. There must be some escape before they get here.

This, at least, is not a holding cell. Those are difficult to get out of. We've been there before and it didn't end well. This is just a hallway with chairs, with prostitutes and their illustrious clientele, with the two kindred spirits I must have nodded off next to and no sign whatever of the bastard that sold us the stuff. I mean, Christ, since when do the Met run raids in the middle of the afternoon anyway? What idiot thought daylight was a good idea for catching the real true villains? Theory: scotophobia at high level in Scotland Yard.

Escape lies with the duty sergeant at the desk at the top, with best voice, with hands-in-pockets rather than shaky hands, with polite excuse me and calm, tailored conversation. I get asfar as the excuse me before being told, in no uncertain terms, to sit back down.

I take his newspaper with me. It's not petty. It's not a thing I do out of petty grievance. I promise.

Well, alright, maybe it is at first, but then I see today's front page for the first time. The whore on my left reels and gags, which is ironic considering the lack of gag reflex so prized within and promoted by her profession. Can't say I blame her though. The picture on the front page of a purportedly very _classy_ British daily is of a puddle of vomit on a tile floor. There's a little white card propped next to it too blurry to read, and the headline beneath declaims, 'But Is It Art?'

The amateurish, half-investigated story goes that some conceptually-minded, contemporary-contempt-ridden tosser carved entirely from one solid block of ennui and self-importance slipped into the National Gallery last night, threw up at the feet of _Lot and His Daughters Fleeing Sodom_ and left a card entitling the piece, "The Expulsion Of Beauty From The Soul Of The Unredeemed."

Distinctly missing from the article is the name of the painting that was stolen.

I return to the desk to ask the duty sergeant.

"Nah, nothing stolen," he says. "Just some nutter thinks he's cleverer than us."

"Than you, perhaps, "I tell him, "But no matter. Have they checked their archival stores?"

"What?"

"The archives, have they checked them? I mean, are they absolutely sure there isn't a missing painting, probably no more than foot in height, something small, of minor fame, but considerable value. Very probably impressionist, something muted, not too much depth or richness. A Constable, perhaps, even one of the studies?"

He looks up at me. Lifts one fat caterpillar of an eyebrow.

And it all becomes very clear; this was not the way to escape. No, not that, certainly. No, I'm going to the holding cell now. Thence to the interrogation room. To be asked just what exactly I know about a missing Constable at the National Gallery. Well done me, then…

Shut up. Take that look off your face. I'm not at the top of my game right now. Medically and psychologically it's understandable.

But the fact is, I'm awake now. And escape isn't much of an option anymore, so the empty, blank calm goes away, and that voice starts up again; there are four left turns and three right between the hall and the holding cell, there are thirty-six windows, there are fifteen lights overhead, three fire extinguishers, twelve locked doors and four open, one coffee machine shared between many, many (haha) constables, and no more nor less than three green glowing glorious bastards of emergency exit signs taunting step by torturous step. The little white man on them running, always living in that wonderful moment just before one breaks through the doors, just before fresh clean air, cold rain, glittering sunlight and how I envy him, that little white man, his life of eternal promise and expectation, of anticipation and wonder, and the door closes behind me, and I am locked away alone.

* * *

><p><em>Jim<em>

It's quite liberating, actually. Contemplating suicide, I mean.

Once you've decided you're not long for this world, there really is _sweet _fuck-all you can't do. Rob a bank? Well, why the hell not? Cut out your own eye? Not going to be using it much anyway. Poke an African dictator repeatedly in the soft fleshy bit behind the ear? What's he going to do, kill you?

Bring it on, you Syrian son-of-a-bitch, murder a Western criminal mastermind. Who's going to play _you_ in the film of it, son?

Fuck it, I could write a screenplay. Bring peace to the Middle East. Or just trick Russia into blowing the shite out of them. That'd probably be easier…

Amongst all this, I opt instead for nostalgia. I'll go back to ground level and have a look at the business the way it was when I was just a lad. Running messages between the men who made the bombs and the men who believed in them, watching for the approaching helicopter lights amongst the distant stars, kneecapping priests… I know that last one sounds like business rather than pleasure, but I was handsomely paid by the altar boy's big brother.

And much as I might love, _love_ clean hands, much as they might be a warmth and a comfort to me, it's been a while since they've been dirty. I don't know, maybe I miss that and just haven't realized. Maybe that's all it'll take, all I'm looking for. Maybe the excitement, the newness, is back there at the bottom, in the gutter, in the dirt. I mean, the _idea_ might be making me nauseous, but that doesn't mean it's wrong. The idea of _Disney_ makes me nauseous, but that doesn't mean I'm not partial to a bit of the old Scar. That there is one sorted lion, and we'll say no more than that. There's a feline worthy of respect.

But yeah, enough about that.

All I'm saying is, this is the logic between me ending up _running an errand_.

Yeah, definitely, that's the bit that makes me sick. The concept of _running an errand_. And not even on a job I set up; I just provided the contacts. I put the pieces in place and somebody else clicked it all together. True, it would never have happened without me, but I was never _invested_ in it. This was just the first place where I could insinuate myself, and I can't hang around this cruel mortal coil much longer if it's going to stay this fucking predictable.

Take this errand, for example. I have stolen the part of the go-between. I am to meet with the thief, who performed the heist, obtain the stolen goods from him, and ferry them off to another gent who knows a little more of the score.

That's it.

That's all she fucking wrote.

And you know what? This happens all the time. Dozens of these little meetings and hand-offs every hour, legal or not, important or not, little exchanges between people making up the world by the minute, heaping up and up on top of each other until the whole concept of actual meaningful interaction is buried, entirely lost, a cause for news reporting. Riots, revolutions, great crimes, all these get their shock value from the fact that they could happen anytime, anywhere, and they don't. That's why they bloody surprise you all.

Jesus, how do you live when all it is is little meetings, little vignettes, eye-blink glimpses of half-real life? When nothing you can do does anything why would you do anything at all?

I just want to check.

Outside the door of the pub where I'm meeting him, I pause. And I turn my eyes up to the sky and I say – not to God, exactly, because him and me couldn't exactly be on the best of terms by this stage, but to Sod and Murphy, men with laws that even I have to believe in – that if anything about this evening is remotely surprising, then I'll give it all another shot.

If they want me to live, they can make it worth my while.

There on the doorstep, I get the text from him. Third stool from the end of the bar. There'll be an empty space held next to him for me to fill. The usual.

He'll be a jumpy, skinny junkie with a carrier bag to give me, or he'll be a big fella with a shaved head and a black sports bag.

What he won't be, and I'll tell you this even as I look upon it, is under twenty-five with long black curls all down his back, sheer-sheathed legs to kill for and a perfect figure-eight shape that seems to barely balance on the barstool. He won't look pale and a little dizzy, won't have a cigarette between two trembling fingers.

Won't, when I ask her for the item in question, lift an eyebrow and say, "Hadn't you better buy me a drink first?"

The one night it would be easier if everything was status quo is the one night something like this happens.

Sod's fucking law…


	3. Interrogation Room:Public Toilets

_Jim_

"Rough night, was it?"

"Christ," she mutters, "Like you wouldn't believe."

When she's not holding a drink she holds herself, and her eyes are looking at something that isn't here. Haunted. A near-miss, maybe, the cops arriving, or she's left somebody behind. Or maybe it's whatever she's stolen, whatever I'm about to take off her. Which stands a chance, at least, of being interesting for a minute or two, I suppose.

The barman wanders over in his own fine time. I tell him, "Whiskey."

And she cuts in, "Double. And whatever he's having." He walks off to get it and she shrugs at me. "Sorry. I'm not taking advantage, I just need my head back…"

"I take it there wasn't a problem with the-"

"Do you think I'd be sitting here if I didn't have-"

"Yeah, alright."

When the double comes she knocks it back in one great gasp, slams down the glass and reels back, holding her head. And it's not like I care, but I did issue a challenge to Sod and Murphy and it's only fair that I let them have their shout. So I ask her, "Fuck's sake, what _is_ the matter with you?"

With a rage and a bile that I've felt but never heard aloud, she hisses, "Guido _fucking_ Reni."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Police like to make people wait. They forget that they're essentially in a people business and that they depend on people and the things that they know, and they make them wait. Either that or they are, and it's totally appropriate and understandably, so venomously disgusted by these very same facts of their dependency that they make their own lives more difficult by taking it out on the people upon whom they so depend. Vicious circle. I rather favour the latter theory, judging by the way they treat me when they finally get round to it. Don't even send a D.I., he's a sergeant. Takes good care of himself, though, shirt still buttoned, tie up nice and tight, not succumbing to any of the usual slovenly touches the police take their perverse pride in. You're not working unless there's coffee on your tie, _unless_, of course, you're playing the game, like the gentleman before me, who still has his cuffs buttoned, who keeps his hair neatly combed, who is covering up his mild, manageable, functional alcohol addiction with painkillers and caffeine supplements.

He's not a D.I. yet, but he's aiming to be, and they'd better promote him quick because he's on his way to a crash so monumental it'll make heroin withdrawal look like a student's Sunday morning.

He addresses me as Mr Holmes, actually. No mention of junkie scum, which is unusual. It gives the whole thing an aura of respect usually missing from such proceedings and then I realize why.

Something_ was_ missing from the archives. And this promotionally-minded professional climber has just spotted a chance to get a major crime under his belt for the interview stages. He's being nice to me because I'm key, not because it's the right thing to do or because I am, contrary to popular belief, a human being. It's strange, but I'm suddenly more comfortable altogether. Always nice to know where one stands, I suppose, and it's nice to know that the status quo, while it may appear to have shifted, never really changes, does it.

His name is Lestrade. Could care less, frankly, but until he gets that promotion he may yet prove useful again.

"So, was it a Constable? Constable's frightfully dull, it probably wouldn't be much of a trigger, if the thief's tastes lie with the Reni."

He consults his notes, "A Gilly," he says.

"Gilè," I correct. "Makes sense, I suppose. Watercolours, you see, you get that same richness as- and I'll bet it was a sketch. I said that before but your man out front's a bulb or two short of a chandelier, I doubt it was relayed."

Lestrade reads from his notes, "Collection of preliminary pencil drawings and colour tests-"

"I knew it."

"Which leads me to the question-"

"How? _Please_…" I hate this. You take them to the end, you give them everything. They have all the facts, ten times as much as I ever had, and they can't even put them together _now_ when it's all laid out, when the pieces are all in place and all they have to do is pick them up like chimps and click them into the corresponding little gaps. And the truly baffling thing is he doesn't even seem frustrated by this. Doesn't even seem aware that all the mysteries of the world are laid before him in much the same fashion and if he'd only take a moment- but he's staring at me, , and the only way they're not going to believe that I'm some kind of mastermind is if this all makes perfect logical sense.

"The person who left that rather distinctive mark at the museum was not an artist, or at least not the kind that treats human effluvia as artistic endeavour. A, and you'll pardon my French, wanker of that particular sort would not have had the skills or the personal nerve to break in in the first place, and even if they did, they would have known more about it. They would have gone to great length to make the mock-piece to fit in. And recognition. They all want recognition. An unsigned, hastily written card, _no_, no. It's clever, certainly, but it's a cover up. The vomit happened first, then the card. Who else would be in the museum overnight, unnoticed, with the skills and personal nerve to break in to the National Gallery?"

He agrees with me, "An art thief. But I still don't see how you knew what sort of art, or how you made this connection in the first place, or what the vomit has to do with anything at all?"

"No, of course you don't… Did you visit the gallery yourself?"

"…_Yes_."

"Was there a smell of seaweed by any chance?"

"Now how the hell-"

"Then she self-medicates."

"_She_?"

"Is that _really_ your most pertinent question right now, Detective Sergeant?"

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Two more doubles, me thinking it's a good thing I'm a man of means, and then she reaches down below the bar. Tries to take my hand, and I take my hand quite quickly away from hers, and find that I don't exactly know what to say. She draws back a second, then laughs, shakes her head. Hand denied her, she hooks my elbow instead, slips down from the barstool and tugs me after her.

Me thinking, "…Hold on." Me thinking, "What?"

Her winking to the barman as she pulls me after her.

Me thinking that I asked the Powers-That-Be to _surprise_ me, not to take the fucking piss.

Her pushing a door open in front of us, pushing me through it before I quite notice the sign at eye-level reading 'Ladies'. Then a sting that I feel maybe four seconds after it actually happens and me thinking to myself, "That bitch smacked my arse."

Me thinking, "…_Seriously_, what?"

I wait until the door swings shut and then ask her what the hell we're doing here. She shrugs, "It's a standard drop-off, mate. Mostly a male clientele, so we won't be disturbed and-"

"No, I mean, in _he_what are you doing?"

Unzipping her jacket, obviously. I mean, I can _see_ that, that's not really my question. My question is more along the lines of what the hell's going on, and is this really standard, and things have changed a bit since my days on the ground if she has to be pulling her jumper off for us to perform a simple exchange.

It's only when I notice her slowing, not quite stopping, staring, that I realize I'm scratching that arm where she pulled me in here. I stop and she goes back about the bizarre bloody striptease. The jumper doesn't come off. It goes up to her shoulders and stretches over the back of the neck, and she turns her back to me so that I can see, can't miss, the oversized brass zipper of her dress. "Oh, no thank you."

"Why don't you like skin?" she says, and even as she does she's pulling her hair out of the way, knowing I'm going to do this rather than answer her. I can do this because I can look away and I don't have to see the triangle of smooth white skin revealing itself, and the edges of a tattoo that extends from the left shoulder down to the waist, and the taut black crossover of a sports bra and I don't have to feel like I need one of those doubles of hers for myself, I don't have to look, I don't have to look, I can look away, I don't have to look.

If you don't see it it's not there.

And once she's unzipped, there's a rip of Velcro. A padded muslin bag unravels from around her waist and she lays it out across the sinks. To do so, she turns her back, all that flesh, away from me, and I can look.

She's trying to zip herself up when I open the pouch.

Paintings and sketches. Something muted, watercolour. Not my scene, but they have their admirers.

The sound of the zipper has stopped. She's standing, leaning against one of the stalls, eyes shut, one hand to her forehead.

I'm about to ask again what's the matter when it dawns on me. I laugh until she tells me to shut up.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Lestrade, to give him his due, is of slightly above average intelligence, but he's not an educated man. The police favour this 'street-smart' approach far too much, if you ask me. But he is, at the very least, receptive to being taught. For instance, he has come to accept that the thief must be a woman based on the facts I've laid out regarding the profession, the wording of the card, etcetera, and the fact that this last evidence points to an erudite, eloquent individual with, oddly enough for the criminal classes, what I believe is referred to in common parlance as a G.S.O.H.

"Go on, then," he says. "What's the last bit? What's the one that brings it all together?"

"Why? So you can arrest me?"

"No, actually. There's somebody higher up than me insisting I don't do that. There's surveillance photography of where you were last night and it's nothing to do with the National Gallery."

Then Mycroft's here, and he's been watching and he's been winning because I haven't seen him. Which just takes all the fun out of it and I really, really don't feel very well just now. Best just bring an end to this.

"Dried seaweed. High potassium, good for motion sickness. Or, for that matter… My God, you have to wonder how she got into the business in the first place…"

"Pardon?"

"Hyperkulturemia. Stendhal syndrome. You're dealing with an art thief who suffers from severe Stendhal syndrome."

I've known it for hours. Now that I've said it out loud and I'm sick as a dog anyway, it makes me laugh. Until, of course, my laughter makes Lestrade feel bad about the fact that he's going to have to go and look up Stendhal syndrome now, and he tells me to shut up.


	4. Interview:Intercourse

_Sherlock_

Note to self: simply because one certain officer of the law may, on one occasion, neglect the old stalwart 'junkie scum', one must never believe in anything other than the absolute stupidity and indeed cruelty of the profession as a whole. Rather than just bail me and respect my right as a human being to avoid like the fires of hell anyone I should so choose to avoid, they deliver me, swiftly and directly, into the hands of my brother.

Still, I suppose Mycroft can be rather amusing...

For instance – he takes up a position at a certain very calculated distance from me. Far enough to give the full impression of his height and 'strong' stance, not so far away as to offer a viable chance of escape. Tips his head back to literally look down his nose at me. Usual sneer. He does this every time, and every time gives it the same welly as before. Someday this will work. Someday I will see this and quail, fall to my knees as the scales fall from my eyes and the light floods in and I see he was right, he was right, all along, Mycroft was right, and spend the rest of my life dead in an office at Vauxhall Cross.

And he wonders where my little habit comes from...

The light flooded in years ago, brother dear. Now if somebody would kindly point me towards the switch, maybe we could start to make some kind of progress.

Here's an idea; I could be sick all over his Italian leather shoes. That could work. That would be turning something which is very probably going to happen anyway into a point that I would very much like to make.

"In fairness," I say as an opener, "I solved a crime while I was here."

"You think this is funny."

"The crime was, a little bit. It's a heist and-"

"Sherlock."

Second note to self: get better at talking in front of brother. Sickening how often this happens (no, not sickening, don't think the word 'sickening' or any other variation on sick, maintain dignity in presence of brother). Can say whatever I want to any other being in the world, but not to him.

"Mother," he says, "is very upset."

"No she's not." A familiar turn of his head, a twitch of a nostril; he's lying, choosing his words to hurt, "You haven't told her anything."

"We need to get this sorted. We can't go on like this."

"You mean you can't. I live a life that works for me-"  
>"-But not for-"<br>"And nobody asked you to be a part of it, Mycroft. By the way, what's this I hear about my surveillance having been scaled up?"

"Well, you've made yourself rather difficult to keep track of."

"A less determined man than yourself might have taken a _hint_ from that."

If I can get him to walk, all poker-arsed, eyes-forward, then I can slip away behind him, but he seems completely set on doing all this in the hall. There's a car outside waiting for us, but that's not something that's going to happen, I'm afraid. If I can get him to turn around and walk this can end with minimal drama and damage for all parties.

Look him over. Pale, miasmic mark on the cuff of his jacket. Patch of white collar beginning to look worn where he's scrubbed out a stain in a hurry. Hair brushed back, but with three distinct lines in the usual perfection; done with fingers, not brush. Traces of scent. Hard to distinguish with all the cheap police aftershave and the all the prostitutes they seem to lead around this place like some much set-dressing from a seventies cop drama, but a touch of something light and expensive and rich with jasmine. Women's. Something beneath that. Thick, muddy scent.

Conclusion: "Still _interviewing_ for new PAs, Mycroft?" Whether it's true or not, that's just not something he can even descend to comment on in the hallway. He turns. Wish he'd done that before; all the detail and guessing is rendered completely unnecessary by the long brown hair clinging to his back. "Brunette. About five-six, but the heels give her a boost. By the way, that's _Corazon_, if you're trying to buy her perfume. Smoky, though, confined space and with a touch of... leather cleaner? Oh, not the car, Mycroft. Not the car, some poor driver has to mop that up before he can take it back to the garage... She's still in the car, isn't she? Oh yes, let's go to the car, Mycroft, I should meet her. See if she's good enough for my _big brother_."

That's it. A quieter corridor and the decorum snaps. Well, as far as it ever does. He starts talking, fast and sharp, without ever looking at me, and at the next divergence of the halls I am gone as though I was never there. Down and left and round the corner, fire exit, three flights of stairs and the backstreet below.

Solved.

Now to solve the sickness, and to somehow delete from my mind the horrifying image of my brother's Lexus casting couch before it burns itself in forever. Now to solve, for however short a while, the horror that turns one long brown hair into that, and is correct.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

She's an art thief and art makes her dizzy. She passed out at the Louvre.

"Please stop laughing at me now."

"No, no, on the contrary, I respect your devotion to your chosen profession in such... adverse circumst-"and I can't even finish that. I can just barely hold myself up against the sinks. There's no point in explaining to her that even if she wasn't quite so ridiculous in herself, I would still have to be laughing my bollocks off, because of how this night began. 'Oh, Sod and Murphy, you great twin totem bastards of my existence, you might hold me in this world only by proving to me there's yet something to hang about for.'

And bang, like a star falling to earth, the thief who almost ran screaming from the very steps of the Uffizi.

Fuck it. Put the cyanide pills off til the morning, at least.

Oh, God, my chest is starting to hurt. Like the bone down the middle is splitting in two. There's not even any sound anymore. It's more like hysteria than anything else. She'd notice that if she wasn't so offended. If I wasn't so fucking relieved to still be here and still have reason to be here, I'd notice her flapping the muslin back over the Gilè's, picking up that simple smuggling device at one end and stepping back. I'd notice her stepping up behind me.

If I wasn't so paralysed with hysteria, I'd have a better chance of fighting her off when one hand comes crashing down on the back of my head, forcing me down into the sink. The hand with the paintings in it doubles up to yank my coat off from the collar down. She knows what she's doing when her fingertips slide along my neck. I don't need to tell her. I can't anyway because the edge of the sink is right in my throat and I wasn't doing much breathing beforehand.

She knows, I can tell that she knows, what she's doing when her breath lingers behind my ear, and when she throws my coat on the floor.

The worse I feel the less I fight. Anyway, all round the edges of my eyes things are starting to go red. There's not much struggle left when she squares herself, feet either side of my mine, legs pressing in from outside, the heat of her vile, vicious fucking skin from through sheer tights. She lays her weight across my back, as much contact as physically possible.

Me, hair-close to unconscious, what can I do?

She lays her head on the back of my neck, holding me down to free her hand. Her hair falls over her shoulder and fills the sink by my face.

That hand crawls down my back and starts to gather my shirt up out of my waistband.

The last half breath, "Christ, I'm sorry. For fuck's sake, I'm sorry."

One more moment she presses the heat of her body into me, unprotected now. Then swiftly straightens, fastening the muslin wrap around my middle and fishes me up out of the sink. The second she lets go of me my knees give and leave me on the floor. While I gasp like something fresh caught, "That's what Guido Reni did to me last night, alright?" Holding my throat, not saying anything, I nod. "Haven't you got a drop to go to?" I nod. "Cheers for the fucking drinks." She's a pair of sharp-heeled shoes leaving me here, done, spent, breathless, wondering what the hell just happened and not sure if I even want to know.


	5. Out:In

_Jim_

Fucking _Christ_, she won't get off me. Three hours later, she won't get off me.

See this is the fucking thing about fucking skin. People don't just touch you and be done with it, they _linger_, and you _feel _them, and they stick to you, and Jesus fucking Christ you can't scrub the fucking bitch off but still feel her but she's still there and Christ there isn't enough hot water in the world to wash the fucking bitch down the drain. Now I'm not normally the sort to give up on anything, but I've actually rubbed a hole in the flannel and done whatever untold damage to my back by this stage, so I think it's time to stop.

Shut the shower off and stand there waiting for her to drain off.

I last about a minute and a half before I turn it back on.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Solved crime, escaped custody, evaded brother. Busy afternoon, no doubt, but what to do now? About three streets from the police station, what to do now. Everything falls apart so easily, it all goes so well and things are happening and then you stop and what to do now?

It's when there's nothing else to do that the noise starts creeping in again, that there are forty-seven bricks in my periphery, eight streetlights before the traffic lights which are about to change and that bloody idiot there's going to get the shock of his life when he runs the red and that lorry _nearly_ gets him, but any old fool can swerve, I suppose, the real skill is the man who gets out of the road, hell of a jumper, possibly, actually, a sportsman, from the look of it, and oh, look, there's a girl on the other side, asking if he's alright, well, such a display of athletic prowess, I'd say he's in there, on a Darwinian level.

What to do? What to do to shut it up?

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Her name is Mies. Contact-of-a-contact, somebody I've used before, from a distance. Never made enough noise to get on the radar. Good, did the job, didn't get caught, which is all you can ask for with most of these heist-types. It's not a level I like to associate myself with, that's why didn't know her face. I do now, though. Quite well. I know she wears a ring with seven stones because it's still biting into my elbow. And she washes her hair with something that smells of coconut and tastes of chemicals, I know that too, and I shouldn't, Christ, I really shouldn't, because I've already made my gums bleed tonight and I can't go through any more of it.

One solution to all of this.

Find her. Finish her. Feel better.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

The Gallery's closed, of course. Bright lights and one patrolling guard, but that's no more than usual. They were robbed last night; why would they be robbed again tonight? This, however, this is exactly right, this is exactly what one needs. This is the precise atmosphere in which last night's break-in took place, and the only atmosphere therefore under which said break-in should be investigated. The police, they come in the daytime and with all the security turned off and all the doors unlocked and think they'll be able to decipher how someone could beat all of those null-and-voided measures. Amateurs.

A camera arcs back and forth after my every move. Motion sensor, rules out ground level entrance. I never suspected it anyway. This is no smash-and-grab, no ram-raid. We're dealing with a true professional, albeit one ill-suited to the profession. No, this is the dying breed of the cat burglar, much more elegant, much more glamorous. A careful woman, but highly sexualized, not just allured but revelling in being alluring. In short, if she knew I was here she'd be loving it.

Of course the archives are basement level, so she wouldn't go too high. Doubles the work getting in, getting out. The farther you have to travel the more space they have to catch you.

And the work is a personal turn-on. Consider the lengths she went to to cover up her little Renaissance accident. If I hadn't pointed it out the missing Gilès could have gone unnoticed for months. She's not looking for publicity, this isn't audacious. It's a personal get-off.

That's admirable, I suppose.

Third floor. Drainpipe access at the back, coming off the service entrances. Not free from surveillance, but lighter certainly.

And yes, sure enough, there's one minute and forty-seven seconds of camera dead space where two panning machines miss each other. Long enough for someone swift to cross the concrete and get up above the angles. Not me, not tonight. Feeling a touch too shaky for that. Need a fag, that's all, quick fag, take the edge off, get a look up at those rear windows.

Oh _God_, but I want to know how she got around those alarms.

Quick fag.

Keep an eye on those cameras. Watch the space from the gate to the… Oh, to hell with it, I'll make it.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

I should be tracking one Ms Danielle Mies.

The criminal classes are bloody predictable. And I'm allowed to say that because somebody has to prove the rule. But that girl got paid today, and the traditional pattern dictates whores and bender, so all I have to do is watch any associated credit cards. Not that she's stupid, she won't go out and blow it all in her own name, but I'll find it. Maybe not looking out for the whores so much…

Just as soon as I get up.

Turns out slate kitchen floor tiles are rough and cold and take just enough of the greasy, slimy feeling out of my skin if I keep writhing about to the cool parts.

Christ, I'm glad nobody's about to see this.

She'd be fecking loving it.

The fleetest, most terrible second, she's sitting up on the worktop. I haul my pathetic, shirtless self off the ground so fast the raw place at the base of my spin tears and bleeds. Of course she's not there. Just the idea of her, just the half-memory of the black shoes clicking away. She knew it, too. She knew when she did it what she was doing. Planning to linger, to last, to ruin my entire fucking night even when it's meant to be my last on earth, the bitch. I can't shoot myself in the morning if _this_ is what I did with my final hours, can I? I'm recoiling from an imaginary cunt in the corner of my kitchen.

Jesus, tell that to St Peter and he'll open the trapdoor.

Tell it to the other fella and he'll laugh me out of there and all.

I'll be left, doomed, abandoned, wandering like Theophilius for all eternity without my soul and with a terrible, Sisyphusian nightmare of an itch and a slimy hate painted into my skin because of her. No. No, I can't leave this world first, this much is certain. And St Peter can't say anything about it either.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. That's in… a book of the Bible and it is a chapter within a verse of that book. I don't need to know details, I just need to know it's there.

And what else would you call a fucking whore who leaves a mark on you and dooms your very soul with it, and all of this intentionally, knowing it, but a…

Yeah, she knew. She said that to me, that she knew what she was doing. 'This is what Guido Reni did to me last night.' The rapture that stopped her in her tracks during her escape, which left her physically and mentally broken and submissive, she knew what she was doing because she'd lived it. She did it to me to demonstrate just how not funny it is.

Here's one from the Bible, fecking 'Do unto others…'

Still can't stop scratching. It's better, I must admit, now that I'm bleeding, because now there's some sense of expiation, of the bad flowing out, the way leeches used to be good for you. Takes a hell of a lot not to rub against the doorframe as I pull myself back to the living room, back to the laptop on the coffee table.

It's a long shot, but not so long I can ignore it; old, stupid internet forum, aimed at allowing educated amateurs to dissect and comment on real world crime. Still use it occasionally for communicating down through the web, via the web.

New thread, and a deep breath because I physically can't believe what I'm about to put.

Blood under the old fingernails over the keyboard.

_Lottie Stendhal_

_Sorryx_

Look at that X, wonder what the fuck it's supposed to be, how that even happened as a typo. Take it out and press 'enter'.

Fuck it. She gets it or she doesn't.

And in the morning I'll trace her inevitable spending spree, I'll catch up with her somewhere and maybe, just maybe, if the itch has gone off, if I can't still feel her legs either side of mine, if he breath isn't still burning behind my ear, maybe I won't flay the flesh from her bones like a blender where she stands.

No promises.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I made it.

_Yay_.

Got across the concrete and up the drainpipe before the cameras caught me. Rather proud of self. Made it. Told you I'd make it.

Only the problem now is I'm not _quite_ making it anymore. Little bit sore, little bit shaky, like I was saying. Nothing to worry about, really. I just sobered up far too fast earlier. And I've been shutting that bloody voice up all night with this little escapade.

It's not the voice that's gone to work on me now, it's the other. You have to invite the demon in the first time, but after that it can come and go as it pleases. It's the demon that loads itself up in a needle and seeks out the sweet, tomato-skin pop of a vein and drives in, draws itself out, drives in, draws out, want it. In. In. Fill it with poison and it goes to sleep. Take it in. None _here_, of course, but want in. Need it. In. Nothing to take. Nothing makes no difference to the need.

…Heroin is the Mephistopheles of a generation. It'll give you whatever you bloody want, no questions asked, no problem, here, have it all and a little bit more but _ultimately_, eventually, it is going to come knocking and it is not quite so easily silenced as that other voice. And I wonder, honestly, I truly do, sometimes, wonder if it's worth it. Especially when it leaves you stranded, shaking, curling up in a ball, heaving because you haven't eaten anything to throw up, sweating, shuddering, on a low back roof of the National _bloody_ Gallery at one in the morning with no hope of getting down and knowing, knowing in all this, that there are nine windows on the corridor just above your head, that she got in, not by disabling the alarms, but by first tripping them and slipping in while the idiots guarding the place checked it out, that there are twenty-three visible stars in your eye-line and one, distant, escaping airplane.

Doomed and very probably dying if not already dead, I fade away with Marlowe looking down on me out of that chasing white light, and saying with nothing less than disgust, "_When all the world dissolves, and every creature shall be purified, all places shall be hell that are not heaven._"

Weak of him, to quote his own work at me, don't you think?

Maybe I'm the one talking…


	6. Housebound: House Arrest

_Sherlock_

I think I'm being arrested again.

Twice in two days. Mycroft _will_ be pleased.

Anyway, I say _think_. Feeling a little bit far away to be absolutely sure. Somebody is getting me down off the roof, finally, so that's nice. Withdrawal is nice. I should do withdrawal more often. It's nice. People help you down from roofs when you're in withdrawal.

Except then, occasionally, when you're junkie scum and life hates you very much, all the fetching, carrying and blanket-provision is ruined when the person leaning over you suddenly opens his just-slightly-too-wide mouth and says, "You're not doing anything for the theory you were behind it, y'know."

He was a Detective Sergeant, and it was yesterday afternoon, and he was alright, actually, and he had a name, which was… Hold on, I'll get this. "…Lestrade. I was investigating."

Oh, that was a much better idea before I actually said it.

They're going to laugh now.

Then a strange thing happens. They _start_ to laugh. And Lestrade tells them to shut up. And all he says to me is, "Do me a favour and piss off."

"…I beg your pardon?"

But, of course, I'm just a second too late. This is his case again, isn't it? This is his promotion case, and it wouldn't have existed if I hadn't noticed it. I suppose it's decent of him to honour the debt, though I would honestly rather he'd brought me a dose. Don't tell me he can't do it because he's CID, that's where they keep all the good, confiscated stuff. I'm not just being selfish; it would enable me to stand straight again and then he and I could be having a decent conversation as he leads me away.

I have a go at my theory about how any crime is best investigated under the circumstances in which it was committed but, while I might know the words in my head, while I may well be as eloquent and emphatically correct as ever, my tongue is at double thickness and velvet-coated and it doesn't quite work.

Need to talk. _Jesus_, imagine not talking. Imagine knowing everything and not being able to say anything.

Well, Marlowe did promise me hell.

Because I'm being such a ridiculous failure, Lestrade takes over the conversational end of things. I opt instead for sullen and mysterious. Not my favourite mask to hide behind, but I'm short on options.

"You gave a cleaner a bloody shock this morning. It's between you and the thief for the worst place to get sick. But…" And you can see this pains him to say, which is _something_ at least, but everything between my ribs and hips chooses now to compress itself into one painful singularity, and it's hard to enjoy it. "…But you proved how she got in. Which is more than our lot got yesterday. Now, don't get me wrong, you've done nothing since I met you but prove yourself a disagreeable little shit I want nothing more to do with." We've walked back across the concrete now, and he reaches out, opening a car door, ushering me in. "I'm not placing you under arrest," he says, and I believe him, so I get in.

I'm a second too late recognizing aftershave, muddy trace perfume, leather cleaner…

At which point, Lestrade points over my shoulder and finishes, "Because he won't let me."

Mycroft.

A trap.

And is there even any point in struggling?

The dim warmth of the back seat is comforting, and it's only now that I feel the cold and all the aches of a night out on the roof. "Give me this," I try, and then stop to drag my tongue against my teeth, wondering why I'm always the one who has to start the conversation, "As passing out on a roof goes, it was a classy roof."

No response. Apparently I'm not even unfunny enough to be commented on anymore. A whole minute goes by and Mycroft says nothing. Which, aside from being deeply unnerving, aside from waking something cool and jellyish in the pit of my stomach, makes it very difficult to concentrate. Consciousness already being the tenuous, overrated thing that it is, I drift a touch. We in the business call it 'nodding'. It's nothing to worry about. Nothing, that is, until I find myself nodding against Mycroft's shoulder and he shoves me off. I wake up because my face hits the window, but it might have been a couple of minutes ago, or maybe a bit more, because Mycroft's getting out of the car. He waits until I sit up before he opens the door on my side.

I'm not sure if he helps me along or just pulls me behind like a child's teddy-bear. Between little glimpses of glorious dark, I realize where we are and remember that I should at least be trying to fight him.

"No. No, I don't like it here, I'm not staying here."

Again, he doesn't say anything and, while I might feel like I'm exhausting myself with my efforts against his grip, I don't seem to be giving him much trouble at all, really.

It's a flat. A fourth floor flat in a nice part of Chelsea with clean wood floors and lots of windows and stunningly white tiles in the bathroom. It's for me. It's where Mycroft keeps putting me, like a toy in the box, and thinking resiliently, bless the hunk of granite in his upper left chest, that if he just keeps putting me there eventually I'm going to stay.

I'm not staying. Must just make that perfectly clear _now_, I am not staying.

Where's a cold sweat when you need one? For once in my life, turning me slimy enough to slip my arm out of his grasp, a cold sweat could be a friend to me and where is it? Well, the next time a cold sweat needs a host it can just shuffle off to the next deserving victim, I won't harbour it.

Mycroft has to stop to unlock the door. I have to stop to slump against it, and in the process catch a single frame of myself in the distortion of the peephole. Physics, laws of reflection and refraction, practical common sense, these are the things that tell me this image is me, not anything I actually see. And I can't help thinking, _Good_.

The flat is as godawful as I remember, and worse. And a tip, for all you concerned sponsor types out there, never set a shivering withdrawal case down on a leather sofa. Leather's not breathable, it sweats and it sticks and that person will not thank you when, after all the comatose hours, it has to peel itself up from that. Still, it's done now, and being anywhere else would involve moving, so that's out.

"You can leave now," I tell him. "I'll ride it out. I'll be fine. I'll call."

In order, truth, lie, truth, lie. Which has a most agreeable balance, if not symmetry.

Mycroft, however, is not leaving. Mycroft is removing from his inside pocket a slim, dark fold-up that I recognize with the dim horror of a deserving child who nonetheless fears the cane and sees it coming.

"No. No, I don't want it." Methadone. The bloody great pretender, but it's not. It's not the same. "Mycroft, it doesn't bloody help." And by this stage I'm trying to get up because much as I might _want_ it, my _God_ do I fucking want it, I just don't want it. And I want him to know that I don't and that I'm willing to fight him for this one. It's not happening for me, though. I can concentrate very hard on centres of gravity and where to put my weight, the mechanics of the manoeuvre, but making the body co-operate is a different thing. "Mycroft, it's worse than nothing!" It's sickly. It's halfway there. The voice is still able to go on, the brain is still able to work and I am powerless to do anything about it. I know methadone, we've been here before and much as Mycroft might seem to think it a splendid alternative to just letting me writhe and heave for another couple of days, I don't want it.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I want it, more than anything, more than peace, more than solitude, more than sunlight and water and oxygen, I want it, but I do not want that bloody useless stuff.

I'm probably calling him things as he gets my arm pulled out straight, holds it under his. I don't really know, but it would make sense. I've got my face buried in a cushion, since I know so totally and terribly what's coming, so it wouldn't be giving him much trouble anyway. Even the vein is reluctant, apparently, because it takes forever.

And then it's all over. What people don't understand is that, left to my own devices and the occasional score, I'm a perfectly functional addict. But that's it, it's over now, because Mycroft said so. He doesn't appreciate, never has and never will, the _effort_ that goes into getting so far away from the world that it _shuts up_.

One little prick (from a long, tall prick) and it's all over. The body falls into stupor and even deeper uselessness. The dark bliss of unconsciousness draws back and back almost out of sight.

And in my mind, analysis of the hardwood floor discovers it to be beech, probably Scandinavian, by the grain. The sofa is only leather on the parts that show. The rest is rough canvas. There's a smells left behind by a cleaner, but the only ones I associate with myself are coming directly from me right now. No doubt they'll be scrubbed away.

The legs of the chair are hollow, metal. Kitchen chair. Sits by the window, two of them, either side of a table, that same bright, cheery beech. Mycroft drags that along behind him too, and places himself between me and the door.

"I know you think you're helping," I tell him, now that speech feels more natural again, "and I know you think I'm only saying this because I'm a horrible bloody scumbag, but you really don't understand, Mycroft, that the bulb in the third light fixture from the end has blown out, that the cleaning lady smokes between fifty and sixty a day, that there's a piece of cheese in the fridge about four, five days into its blue mould stages, that I'm aware of every millimetre of my own being and every atom of the air, that it's the speed of light and not the brightness that causes headaches, that there are one-hundred and forty two books in this room and, point of pride, not a one by Dan Brown, that Fermat's theorem solves a lot more easily if you remove the error in the-"

"Hush, Sherlock."

And because he hasn't spoken until now I do as he says.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

New York. Haven't broken America yet, have I? And by 'broken' I mean, of course, left it on its knees begging my indulgence and clemency, very probably in a live televisual global broadcast, knowing the Yanks… Yeah. Get packing, we'll go do America. Actually, fuck packing, we'll get all new stuff out there. Embrace the culture, as it were. Arrive, consume-consume-consume, looking very much like one trying to assimilate, lull them all into a false sense of security, then flog them all mercilessly with their own obese complacency. Gorgeous plan. It's the beauty of simplicity, the solution to the problem broken down to its core blocks. Elementary, my dear.

Five seconds since I woke and here's the best plan ever. I must have dreamt it. And I'm picking a passport from the selection at the back of the vegetable crisper in the fridge before it all collapses.

That's about six minutes total. In fairness, aside from trading up Dublin for London, that's the longest any plan has ever lasted.

Problem number one: New York, America, it might be a big market, but that doesn't make it a challenge. America is full of mercenary bastards and flowing over with the weak and the desperate. America is already a roiling cauldron of stress and strain and all it needs is the right word in the right ear. It wouldn't work. I'd have made them nuke Russia within six months, _probably_ by accident, and holocaust serves nobody.

Concurrently, problem number two: New York will not be any less boring. New York will hit just as hard, just as fast as London, and there'll be more to take care of, more day to day monotony in running things. I don't want a worldwide empire, I never did. What exactly I _did_ want is… Is nobody's fucking business but my own, now fuck off. The _point_, on the other hand, is that New York changes nothing but the scenery and the personality of the surrounding cast. It expands everything and adds nothing.

Clearly, whatever dream put this shite in my head was talking complete bollocks. Never in a million, billion years would uprooting and taking off elsewhere again ever improve things. London has taught me that, and done so quick and without compassion. Then again, my dream-state couldn't have been at its best last night. Perhaps it's not to be blamed in itself. Perhaps instead we should blame the hours of tossing and rolling and seeking out something comfortingly cold, or the fact that this insomnia left me sleeping braced in the bottom of the bath. Or we could blame the alcohol it took to get even that much peace, or the painkillers, or the sting of antiseptic in what, this morning, would appear to have turned into a pustulent, yellowish patch of scab and scarification on my lower back.

Or, _or_, we step back just once more and find the source of all that pain and discomfort.

I can't go to _America_. Are you mad? I have to go to the computer, first and foremost.

Can't remember exactly where I left that message, so once I log in I just search the threads for 'Stendhal'.

There's my message, at the bottom, with no replies as yet.

Above it, eight users in an extended discussion of the heist. The absence of the Gilès has been noted, it would seem, and other intelligent people have caught on to Miss Mies' cover-up. Amongst these eight users are a coroner, two medical students, one former police detective, a famous crime-writer under an innocuous pseudonym, and three others belonging more on my side of the law.

Still, the only consensus they seem to have reached, the thing all these bright-spark minds have spent all night and one-hundred and twelve posts discussing, might be most elegantly summarized as 'Lol art feef cnt luk art lol!'

The bastards.

It's while I'm skimming over this detailed, insightful commentary that a private box pops up in the corner of the window. Somebody not logged in, calling themselves _MieDart_.

-_See all that up above, that stuff you're reading now on your laptop-_

I sit up a bit straighter, try and get a look around, but there's nobody here. I'd know, there are alarms, I'd be aware of her, there's nobody here. And yet –

-s_itting on your couch, nursing your hangover, you need to get a bandage on your back before you tear it open again-_

Yeah, she's right, I'm scratching. She might not be here, but that didn't make any difference last night, and now it's like having her back in the room. I'm scratching. I'm finding the scabby, flaky edges, getting them between fingernails worn down by a night's worth of trying to scrape her away, and peeling them off in long, stinging spears-

-_seriously, the self-harm's not a good look for you, but to return to my point-_

Her point, her evil, wheedling little needlepoint pushing infection under my skin, her _dart_ – The window. The window is open. I opened the window when I got up. Cat burglar. And she's signed in as _Dart_. With the laptop on one arm, I get up and cross to the glass, slam the pane shut, press against it to look out in both directions, and up and down as far as possible, but I can't find her, can't see her anywhere.

But to return to her point.

-_You see all that up there? You're a fucking dead man_.

User leaves, chatbox closes. Stand there another while, keeping an eye. Turn back towards the room and then look very fast over my shoulder in case she thinks she's escaping only she's not and I end up feeling a bit stupid.

I'm not scared, by the way. _Please_, what do you take me for? Even if she was here, and had somehow managed to get in, and she _did _sneak up on me as I slept with a boning knife and slowly part the two flanks of my back from my spine from neck to coccyx and proceed then along the ribs and shoulderblades, peeling red flesh back from washy, blood-pinked scapula and… She wouldn't, because I'm bigger and stronger than her and I'd stop her, _obviously_. I'm not _scared_, how could I be _scared_? It's just disconcerting to be on the other side of the threats, that's all.

No sense in going and getting all edgy and paranoid over this. No, she knew about the message, she knew what I was doing this morning, but there's no way she's here. Therefore, the flat must be bugged somehow.

It's okay, I've got a thing for that.

It's down the hall, though, under the bed in the spare room. This also is fine. I know how to protect myself. Just on the off-chance that she's here, not that she is. It's in the telephone table, folded into the ancient black address book, at the page marked M so I'll remember never to call the only number on that page. This was my maternal grandmother's last gift to me when she heard I was headed for the ninth ring of hell, or _the English Capital_. Two days after giving it, while I was on the actual flight, the wizened old hag had the temerity to coil up her gnarled tentacles and die, an act I had absolutely nothing to do with whatsoever no matter what you might hear to the contrary.

It's a faded postcard print she was given by a priest on a pilgrimage to fucking Knock or something, of _The Garden Of Earthly Delights_. It's small and battered, but it ought to give me a couple of seconds shock should I happen to bump into any easily impressed art buffs on the way. I carry it ahead of me like a cross against vampires.

There's nothing there, of course. But the postcard goes in around the door of the spare room before I do.

Of course there's nothing there, this is ridiculous.

I get the old RF scanner out of the shoebox under the bed and walk it slowly around the flat. The postcard stays with me. Back pocket. Easy reach. Just in case.

I don't know what's worse; the fact that the scanner detects absolutely nothing or the fact that I'm not surprised. What's worse; that I feel the sudden need to be dressed and ready in case she shows up, or that I get dressed like some cockless, bruised altar boy after school showers, in case she's already there?


	7. Food:Fuel

_Jim_

No sense in being paranoid and ridiculous about these things. There's no reason to be paranoid about the flat, it's ridiculous. But I can't just sit in either, waiting in case she's just outside the door. Can't give her that satisfaction, not in good conscience. No, why would I? If it should happen to be a nice day and I should happen to fancy pasta for lunch and there should happen to be a small Italian round the corner where I can make a couple of discreet calls if I should wish to so do, so fecking be it. I'm not staying in on her account.

And if said small Italian should happen to have the walls plastered with reproduction Renaissance paintings, that's just a bonus I wasn't even thinking about.

So under a print of Titian's _Salome_ I order the arrabiata and get to work. There's a lady, for instance, in the City, who'll do about anything for me if I call her in person, because she likes my accent. I tend to email her because I'm never all that sure what she's getting out of it. Heard some odd noises down that phone, times since… But, needs must, and not only has Constance got access to credit records I can't get my hands on personally right now, but she's quite good at tracking down aliases.

And because I called her in person I know by the time I'm finishing my lunch she'll be back to me.

_David_ studies _The Head Of Goliath_ directly across from me. It's Baroque, not Renaissance, but we'll forgive it that, because it's these horrific images that hang around and protect me. _Saint Sebastian_, lashed to a pillar and full of strategically placed arrows, has never been so useful to anyone. Cain kicking his brother to death on pointy rocks never served anyone's purpose but God's until now.

Second phone call, this one to a gentleman called Hugo, who I understand to be Miss Mies' Fagin, a sort of criminality pimp who never tells me anymore than I strictly need to know and the very thought of whom sends my skin creeping off in a big jellyfish to shudder in the corner. We've met twice. Once was too much. He's closer to seven feet than six, and still has all his teeth, or at least the fetid brown stumps of them. He looks like a piece of chamois leather hanging on a meat hook on a hot day, and smells about the same.

He's usually very cheery on the phone and has been known on occasion to call me Jimmy. Two occasions, actually, that's slipped out.

Hugo has eight fingers. Not to sound like I'm still considering America, but you do the math.

But today, there's not even a hint of that. Today he greets me as, "Moriarty."

"Hugo. Listen, don't ask but, I bumped into a girl works for you and-"

"Danielle, yeah."

"Oh, you heard."

"…Fuck's sake, Jim, what'd you do it for?"

"What? Come on, you have to admit it's funny. It's fucking _hilarious_." The guy at the next table is reading _G2_. Today's How-To-Sound-Pretentious-and-Condescending sidebar is a quick fact-file on Stendhal Syndrome. Which means even _The Guardian_ think it's funny and they've got no sense of humour I'd care to align myself with. _The Daily Mail_, of course, are taking everything straight, po-faced seriously, but you know, you just know they're all biting their nails or laughing into paper bags or whatever people with sticks up their arses do when something's funny.

My pasta comes to the table, making the moment beautiful, but that Hugo manages to time its puncture perfectly. "Bloody cops, though, innit?"

Pastapastapastapasta_bombshell. _"Wait; what?"

"What'd you go and giggle to them for?"

"You think _I_ told the brass?"

A dead, trembling silence on Hugo's end, which just makes me think he's done something fucking _terrible_ and I'm going to want to kill him in a second. "Are you at home?"

"Not currently, no."

"Do you think she'd know where to find you? Is there any way she could know where to find you?"

_The Last Supper_, that's a good painting. It's not even violent. There's no pasta in it but if Jesus had been alive today and the Passover lodgings had been over a Caffe Nero, there would have been. Anyway, the sentiment is there. Part of me doesn't want to eat anymore. Part of me knows I might want to keep my strength up.

"What are you telling me, Hugo?"

"Last fella she thought grassed her up? He's shambling about Soho with no tongue-"

"Ah, well, that's pretty standard for informers, I suppose-"

"-He's been wearing the same anorak since the night she did it and he's living off nothing but soup kitchens and White Lightning, his former wife's whoring herself for crack, one of the kids is in care and the other, though this is second-hand and I don't know it for fact, is said to have joined a cult in Florida."

He's probably exaggerating. That's probably all at least third-hand information. At any rate, there's no way Miss Mies is responsible for all of it, probably. Nonetheless my throat closes on the penne and I choke, "Jesus, Hugo, what kind of fucking psychopaths are you dealing with?"

Again, he goes quiet. I like the implications of this pause even less than the first one.

"Just be careful, yeah?"

Disgusted, I hang up.

Constance calls back, like I said she would. It didn't take very long at all because the only place a card under the name Mies or any associated alias was used was in a B&Q just up the road from here.

Arrabiata looks bloody. David and Salome stop being my guardians and start being two slightly creepy, oversexed adolescents, both carrying severed heads, who bracket me into my seat.

Those aren't arrows sticking out of St Sebastian, y'know. They're big fucking nails from B&Q.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

There is nothing even left to count. Not that counting works. It used to work better, before I discovered oblivion. Now counting is almost part of the problem, just another admission to the hideous fact that life is arranged so that sometimes there is just nothing to think about. But you can't think nothing, can you? How can you think nothing? How can your brain just stop doing anything?

Without help, I mean.

Does that happen? Other people, real people, does that happen to them? Do they think nothing?

I think Mycroft is asleep. Tonal shift in his breathing about ten minutes ago, though I'm always surprised to find that he does, in fact, breathe. Until he sniffs or sighs you hardly notice it, and he only ever does those things for effect. For a long three weeks when we were children I was fairly convinced he had some sort of osmotic gills. I think I'm still barred from that swimming pool…

I think I could probably get up, if I thought very hard about it.

First things first, get a foot on the floor, figure out where that is. Roll over so that the other can follow it, _peeling off the leather sofa with great discomfort and sensitivity of the skin, thank you Mycroft_. Slowly, so as to avoid headrush, push up from the elbows and raise remainder of body gently above the established base.

Forty-two torn out newspaper articles pasted to the wall over the mock-fire. From a previous count, seventeen minor flaws in the fabric of the curtains. You don't forget counts. Counts stick, good facts, solid, unchanging, understood numbers.

Arms for balance and ballast, lean forward, over the knees, shifting the centre of gravity, _Jesus_, is this what happens in normal heads? It can't be. How many people in the street, if I asked them to describe standing up, would have a clue how to do it properly? We're talking here about heads that simply act, which don't understand the process of anything.

How can they think of nothing? Because they know nothing.

If I hold onto the back of the couch I can just about lean in to get a decent look at Mycroft. He's sleeping, yes, and not so lightly or I'd have wakened him by now. But he's parked that chair good and tight against the door, so there's that gone as an exit. To hell with him. He can't keep me here. Whatever he does, he can't keep me here. I hate this place. It was all his idea, you know. One moment I'm happily oblivious to everything in a cupboard of a room over a cheap Indian who never bothered with me and it's bliss and the next I wake up here, this stripped, Scandinavian hell. He'd moved my books in before me. My clothes, my scientific apparatus. Leaning in the corner, nonchalant, 'just putting this here in case you fancy a go', the violin in its case.

Well, I'd been getting along just fine without all those bloody useless bloody things, needed no more from them, still don't, don't need this place, and just because he's sleeping in front of the door on a metal chair I can't move doesn't mean I'm going to _fucking_ stay.

I want to tell him that. I want him to know that, want the pleasure of saying it to his face. But I don't want to wake him. Maybe I'll leave a note to that effect, because I'm not staying here.

I'll need sustenance before I can try the window. The sheer thought of the physicality almost puts me back on the sofa, but that's worse. No, I need fuel, and some clear idea of where to go, what to do, _something_ to do. Something to think about so I don't think about how the seemingly hundreds of shades-of-grey tiles on the floor of the kitchenette are actually just twelve tiles patterned to give that effect. Given that the one directly in front of my toes is at the perfect rotation, there are four the same as it, three are at ninety degrees, two at one-eighty and one at two-seventy, but they are all the same tile, identical. Mosaic used to be a craft, you know. Even the art's a bloody cheat these days. I have to get away from it. Either I'll go somewhere where I can score and get away from it that way or I'll go somewhere that's real, that isn't a cheat, but I don't know where, can't think where.

All of this depends on the window. And, since nobody lives here until Mycroft takes it upon himself to drag me back by the scruff, the window ends up depending on a lonely bag of cheesy Wotsits from the back of a cupboard. That's alright, I've had worse. Quite like cheesy Wotsits, actually.

Twenty-nine of them.

You don't count your cheesy Wotsits, do you? You have those first few thoughts, yes, about how you've eaten worse _shit_ at some godawful four in the morning, about how you actually quite enjoy cheesy Wotsits, that peculiar nuclear orange colour of them, the way they turn so quickly from an easy, gratifying crunch to that pleasurable mulch on the tongue. But you don't go on then, do you? Do you count them as you eat through them and compare in your mind the calorie counter on the back of the bag to the remembered numbers on other similar products, and then think about those products and work up a quick estimate of just how quickly you'd drop dead if the human body wasn't quite so clever about putting all the nasty things away in little pockets and sacs and fleshy cupboards, do you? Do you? If you don't, then why not? If you don't, why do I? And if you do, really, any old tips, I'll give anything a go once.

Twice if I survive it. Of course, by the time I've had to do something twice I'm usually not enjoying it anymore. Best tip; something you only ever get to do once.

Yes, maybe, but not right now.

Right now, full of nuclear orange, time to have a go at the windows.


	8. London:Dublin

_Sherlock_

I couldn't think of anywhere. Somewhere that wasn't a cheat, where everything was real and there'd be things to concentrate on, somewhere where the world would make sense, I couldn't think of one.

No, that's not strictly true.

Everything makes sense when there is nothing to make sense of. It sounds like a fallacy, I know, but it's not, not when you look through it, not when you really, _really _think about it. And my superbly intelligent brother used the same dosage as the last time he tried to put me under, which was several months ago and one does rather tend to build up a resistance, you know, so it's about worn off already, so I really can't _help_ but look bloody through bloody everything.

Never look through London.

Should you ever be offered the chance to borrow a brain that can see through London, even for a moment, do not take it. It's a trick. Someone is after your soul. Run from the offer. Run as far as you can. I would content myself to count every blade of grass in England in exchange for one hour's freedom from it.

London is a nightmare, and makes no attempt to hide it.

A smoker, a dog-owner, a gentleman with a sporadic approach to personal hygiene is piling illegal posters up upon illegal posters, a row of visceral, gaping wet mouths leering down as though to swallow the street in pieces. Here at dusk, the sensors only half-activated, the streetlights pulse and buzz with the effort of keeping up the low, red glow they give off. The bricks are crumbling. The first floors are done up in chrome and glass, and plastic people lurk in the windows to stare blindly, unruffled at all that passes before them, but above, look up, old stones, old buildings, the legacy of Victoria, cramped terraces, children squalled in them and couples came to blows and great battles of class were fought and won over a piece of meat, over a week's rent. Ivy and pigeon nests and stunted, half-formed shrubs hang out of the windows, climb up the sides. All of this, pushed up above high-street chains, fast food, fast fashion. London doesn't grow out of the ground, but it would explain so much, wouldn't it?

Note to self; London as fungus. Growing outwards in perpetual spore rings, shallow, each new growth sucking another scrap of sustenance out of dead earth. Nothing grows here, except in the rot of before, tucked up there in the sky.

London as virus, forever recreating itself, using up everything it touches, taking and taking and taking and taking and taking.

London as cancer. Shan't labour an obvious metaphor.

Woman, occasional recreational drug user, nothing harder than coke, I should think, leaving a man behind in a club maybe two streets away – her toes are starting to go red in her shoe straps, but she's not wobbling yet. Openly crying. And it's not that people don't care, it's not that people don't notice her, but that they see nothing of concern. They don't walk past because they themselves are cruel, heartless, but because the city is; they walk past because what's one more crying woman in this place?

So leave.

That's what you're thinking, I know it is. Stop bloody complaining about it and just leave. And you're right to think it. I used to think it too.

But who could give up hell? What sane person could walk away from known madness into unknown peace? Who could give up hell and risk finding that all you ever dreamed of is illusion and no better than what was given?

In short, I'm terribly afraid that heaven might be boring.

In heaven, I am almost certain one would not be passed in the street by a black gentleman, about six foot five, in a nine-inch miniskirt and large powder blue afro wig, or indeed and which is much more interesting, by the shambling tramp in the navy overcoat.

This latter has the weak, soft jaw of a mute, and his eyes have the pink, ruched squint of the raging alcoholic but that's a good coat. Or it was, maybe ten or twelve months of harrowing abuse ago. The timing's right for a disgraced banker, but the mute theory clashes directly with that. Clutched in his hand the way the dying hold their children is a long-dead mobile phone of the same era. Clearly it's irreparably damaged, and time on the street has left the battery flat anyway, and yet occasionally he lifts it as though it might have rung and he's not sure what he heard. Never anything there, poor sod.

I follow him, for a bit. A distraction, an interesting contradiction rolling along the walls. But apparently he's not so very out of it after all, because in the end he turns around and shouts at me. Or tries to. Which is interesting, because a mute would be used to not making the noise, would, if anything, have found other ways to be menacing, but this is his instinctive, automatic reaction. Unformed noise echoes up out of his throat, and while his mouth is wide I see what's happened, grab that useless jaw and hold it down until I can get a better look.

"_Not_ a mute. Tongue cut out. Amateur, obviously, and amateur doctoring too. Left-handed, by the angle you've been left with and-" inspecting a small scar at the corner of his mouth, "_very_ forcefully done. A strong hand, but then again, I imagine you were tied. You talked too much. Traitor, wasn't it? Attacker was coming at you from above but, again looking at the physics of it, I'd say still much shorter than you. About five-four, five-five? And stood behind you, pushing downward, had your head back. Ah, the _amateur_ doctor! Criminal, it was criminal! It wasn't banking at all… _Well_…"

At which distraction he forces my hand away, turns his back and shambles on a bit more quickly than before. So I was right.

That was nice. Fun and games. Very soothing. He is, however, gone now, and London belches forth nothing else quite so interesting for a while, and adding up the number portions of the postcodes on the streets I take does nothing and so the original plan goes ahead. The numbers take me to one of Hugo's doors.

This is what I mean about London. There are eight of these doors that I know of. This is the Soho one. It is a door between the door of a basement club and the door of what I am assured is a perfectly legitimate bookshop. Right there on the street, this door has a panel in it which slides back, and if you push money through they push small square bags of light brown powder out, and if you push even more money through, the door opens and you can burrow yourself away upstairs, out of sight and out of your mind, until such times as someone decides to move you.

These doors, all eight of them, they have the name 'Hugo' sprayed on them, a uniform white stencil. Franchise doss houses. Wherever you are in London, there'll be a Hugo's. Dependable, middling quality, same across the board, staff all trained the same. They're a mascot away from global branding.

This is what I mean about London. There's always a snugly carpeted corner in a relatively quiet room up a narrow stairwell, if you need one. The larger room is full and rowdy. They have music and they keep laughing. I bury myself at the back of the smaller, alone except for one girl so high she isn't really in the room and doesn't count. She stands tall, arms over her head, coiling back and forth like a lava lamp. Singing along, 'Get your rocks off, honey', over and over again, even when the lyrics change.

Musical accompaniment and a brand new needle, courtesy of brother dear.

_Get your rocks off, honey_.

Don't mind if I do.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Danielle Mies doesn't live at the flat she keeps in her name. Sometimes, maybe, but not really. Not her main residence, as the politicians would say. The food in the cupboards is basic, and just the stuff that doesn't go off. Butter and chocolate, vodka and coke, crackers, tin of beans. She's been here recently. There's a glass going sticky in the sink. The single shelf of books and DVDs has a few clean streaks on it where she's disturbed the fine layer of dust. She watched a bit of _Flying Circus_ before she nipped off to the gallery the other night. She's reading through a Don Winslow which, in spite of myself, I hope she finishes, because it's decent.

The only clothes in the wardrobe were folded in a suitcase at the bottom, not hung up.

I wonder where else she lives. That could be fun. That might get me out of the flat for a while. A great big international chase scene, all Carmen Sandiego and all…

Anyway, if she's somehow watching me, listening to me, it's not from there. What little she keeps there, I turned over, and there's nothing of the sort. No sign of the lady herself either. Maybe she's doing the sensible thing, after a heist that's gone global thanks to the internet 'Stupidest Criminal' pages, and getting out of town. Maybe she's retraining as a hairdresser or something. Something that doesn't involve working with much overwhelming beauty, _boom-boom_.

That must hurt, actually.

Here's this job you do, right? And you do a bloody stellar job, I won't take that away from her. And even when you fuck it up, you do it in one of the most intriguing possible ways, and when you cover up, you cover up with elegance and grace.

If she'd done it at Tate Modern or Saatchi, nobody would even have questioned it.

And now you're on World's Stupidest Criminal lists, and really there was nothing stupid about it.

See? I'm appreciative. I think it was an excellent theft. I'm certainly _far_ too in awe to have given her up to the cops for nothing more than a cheap giggle.

She can't hear my thoughts, can she? Hopefully that's as much because she's in Tokyo or similar as it's because I'm not actually telepathic.

Anyway, I'm going home now. Why wouldn't I? It's my place, after all. It's alarmed and locked up tight, and whatever nasty, Derren Brown tricks a certain somebody might have played this morning, there's nobody there right now.

Even if there was, I'm better than ready for her. It wasn't just priests back in the old country, y'know. Dublin's a shithole, you can beat up about anybody in Dublin and not have to feel bad about it. Needing a bath afterward was nothing to do with anything so petty as revulsion over physical contact with the kind of scum I shared a city with; it was just a necessary precaution against plague and pestilence. God knows War and Death were already abroad.

There was a gypsy horse that used to roam about, until the council showed up to take it home. Over and over again. This horse would get turned loose, wander a day or two, and the council would take it home to the caravans. That horse, that meandering great beast of a thing, shuffling around in the gutters and drinking out of them, that horse was easier to be close to than most of the people I knew.

Of course, it wasn't really until I left that I realized all this. That's the way of it, I suppose. You don't notice how steeped in filth you are until you get up a bit, out of it.

I'll never forget it. This is somewhere between the second and third millions, after the first job I had nothing whatever to do with personally, and it was the ninth of May. I moved a grand total of sixty-two steps from my former apartment in the Quays up to the penthouse. And if it sounds indulgent then good, because it fecking was. It was indulgent and it was mine and it fecking _meant_ something. Not that I knew that myself. Not until, painstakingly, by my own lonesome, I'd hunked everything I owned those sixty two steps and into the new place. It's all sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor. And I'm wrecked and covered in dust and sweating like a fucking animal, as you might expect.

So I opened a window. Not really a terrace, really, but a Juliet balcony. Something to lean on at my window, that's the point. Hadn't had that before.

Air tastes better up there, like ice water. And the sky was clear without being bright, the sun pure without being blinding. There's always a breeze. The river's beneath you and the whole chaos of an evolving place is spread there. Like it was for me, like that was the message; that this was mine to take.

Even the mess that I was, I'd never felt clean like that.

Ninth of May. Just that one single moment, which barely felt like anything at the time and passed quick as any other, burned on me.

Moment passed, dream passed, Dublin passed, but I remember, and it's not any less just because it's over now.

It's not the ninth of May, today, but it's still home and I'm still going there. Nobody takes that from me. I still want, as I have all day, a large heavy stick, but it's not for self-defence anymore. It's in case she's there, in case I find her there. A big stick is much more agreeable than bare hands, don't you think? Keeps the blood off the cuffs, yes?

Jesus, I can't fucking _wait_.

And I'm getting my wish too.

As I climb that last flight of stairs, I can hear music. That wasn't me, I was a bit too edgy for music this morning. I didn't leave any music on.

It's her fault I thought of flats, thought of Dublin. Whatever happens to her she brought it on herself.

I listen carefully at the door. She's singing along, word for word, and dancing by the sounds of things, in the middle of the room. Behind the sofa. Singing, "_Dealers keep dealing, thieves keep thieving_."

Whores keep whoring, junkies keep scoring. Don't hear that on the radio anymore. I hope she's using my stereo, y'know. I can treat myself to a new one once I use it to cave her face into the back of her skull.

She goes dead quiet when I put my key in the door, dead quiet and dead still. Waiting for me, ready to pounce. I take the chance that she's not going to shoot me (doesn't seem to be her style) and let myself in.

Nothing.

Actually, not quite nothing. My stereo in use and, strangely enough, my dressing gown abandoned in the middle of the floor, just where she was.

Then a clunk, and as I hit the hardwood I realize something just collided with the back of my head. Just me and Primal Scream and I'm going, going, gone, a sweetly distant voice escorting me into the dark, _Get your rocks off, honey._


	9. Righteous:Cruel

_Jim_

I don't know how long it is before I come to. It's dark outside, so I didn't go all the way through the night. That can't but be a good thing. Because of the blunt object, whatever it was, because of the resultant headache, it takes a while for me to distinguish any more than light from dark. Then, gradually, things start coming into focus. The dining table, for instance, is still long and glossy and black. And I'm on a level like I'm sitting at it, but it's very far away, and there's this funny white and grey blur in the middle of my vision I can't quite get round.

It's singing actually.

It's sitting on the edge of the table, naked but for _my_ dressing gown, humming along to _Gimme Shelter_.

I'm going to fucking kill her. Once my head stops spinning. Once I'm not tied to this chair and this chair's not newly bracketed to the floor (there's the bloody B&Q receipt for you).

For now all I can do is watch blearily as one white foot stretches out, parks itself on my knee and shakes me. "Is that you back, dear?" When I wake enough for my leg to flinch, fair play to her, she takes her foot back. Climbs down from the table and crouches in front of me, "Come on, wakey-wakey. It's been a while. I was starting to think I'd hit you too hard. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

"Fuck off and die, you self-righteous fucking bitch. I hope Da Vinci and Michelangelo take turns raping you in hell for all eternity."

A pair of firm, smiling lips resolve in the blur, half smiling, "Hardly. They were both vicious queens."

"Hell for them too, love. Two birds, one stone."

"Good. Glad you're feeling defiant."

"Oh, so what's it to be? Bit of torture, first, before the end? Just bump me off before I talk you out of it."

The face draws away just as it starts to become clear. I see her stand and then, terribly, horribly, I see the grey fall away, and I swear to God, if she keeps leaving my things on the floor I'm going to turn her bones into piano keys, but more importantly and more immediately she is now standing completely naked leaning on the place where I very occasionally eat. And she says, "Murder, darling? No, no, I'm not _that_ pissed-off. No, I thought what I'd do was just leave you tied up there, and basically walk about in your space, use your stuff, rub up against things, leave hairs in the shower, sleep in your bed, so on, so forth. How's that sound?"

"…You would and all, you bitch."

"Yes, yes, I would."

I have neighbours. Suddenly, gloriously, I remember that I have neighbours. And as I open my mouth to cry for help, she lifts the pre-tied gag up from around my neck and pops it between my teeth. And wanders away, trailing her hand along the table and the other chairs, rolling against the door as she pushes it open and disappears into the rest of my flat to do untold damage. Singing along to _Suffragette City_.

I shout for her through the gag, and she leans obediently back into the room. I nod her over.

Danielle Mies stands looking for me like I'm going to blink Morse at her. Through the gag I call her a great number of things, but I stop, because when she goes to take it off she moves it with only the outsides of her thumbs, placing the rest of her hands on the sides of my face. Even when she takes it off I'm having trouble talking.

"I spoke to Hugo," I tell her. "It wasn't me that grassed."

"Why should I believe you? Hugo knows better and nobody else knows about my… Of course, they do now. The cops, I can get away from. I'm not worried about the cops. But they were laughing about me on GMTV, this morning. And This Morning, come to think of it. Rumour has it Leno's got a joke about me lined up for tonight-"

"Nobody knows your name!"

"_I do! I do, you bastard, it matters to me, I know it means me, that's enough!_"

That's what it his. Her pride is the raw nerve and that's what's been hurt. I understand, I really do.

"It wasn't me. I don't talk to cops. I _could_, at this level. I could have a whole stable of dirty coppers under me, I really could. I don't, though. It's an Irish thing, I think. Wasn't me."

She eyes me for a while, and I stare right back, meet her eye. "No. You're lying."

"I'm fucking n-"

But when my mouth opens for the end, she pops the gag back in. Moves her hands so my face can itch in the open air. Walks away, swinging her hips and announces over her shoulder. "I'm not being arrogant or anything, but I'm standing in front of you naked and you're looking me in the eye? You're lying."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

The girl, the dancing girl, her name is Ruby, or she says it is. I don't really believe her. It's possible, but her voice gives away the area she's from and based on that and her approximate age, Ruby just doesn't sound right. But it's lovely and velvety down here in the dark, where I can know a thing like that without really having to care. She, like me, is not in the other room with the laughing people, but she's happy to listen in on their music.

"I like music," she says, with genuine warmth and feeling, though I didn't actually ask.

"Of course you do," I tell her. "You were raised working class. You associate music with the radio at your grandparents' house, with your cousin's wedding and your elder sister's recent engagement party. Music is how happy times have been signalled throughout your life. Music was the only thing that understood you during the considerable trauma of your adolescence. It was where you hid. It kept the noise out when you were alone in your bedroom and they wouldn't stop shouting. It _used_ to keep the noise out anyway, and it probably would have done the job well enough, _until_, of course, you started firing the music up your arm and then suddenly the _actual_ music didn't work anymore. How am I doing?"

Out of a long pretty twirl she drops down, sitting on her knees in the middle of the floor.

"You like music and all, then?"

"Ruby, dear, I love it."

"What kind of music do you like, then?"

"…Paganini, _then_."

"Oh." I've disappointed her. "Should've known, since, like, you talk posh and all…"

"And Morrissey."

And rather than just indicate by some word or sign that she and I are in agreement on this point, I get a brief, tuneless blast from _Bigmouth Strikes Again_. The bit about Joan of Arc, which wakes something in the back of my mind, but I can't quite get to it in this state. That's alright, though, I know how to cope with this. I've developed a system. Well, I've started carrying a notebook. When things won't necessarily stay in my head, that's what the notebook's for… on those occasions when I can read the results the following morning. A quick note for another day; 'what's Joan D'Arc got to do with it?'

Anyway, Ruby's finished.

"Very nice," I tell her, and I tell you, my friend, she _glows_. Smiles so wide it closes her eyes. Giggles her thanks. "Better question, what kind of music _don't_ you like?"

"Oh, no, I like everything. I like all music. Music is good."

"Oh, come on. One singer, one group, and you can make it like they never existed, like none of it ever happened, Ruby. Deleted. And y-"

"AC/DC…" Said very quickly, very small, her voice curling away inside her. And Ruby rocks back, picks her knees up from the floor and holds onto them, balances her head on top. Says again, "AC/DC."

"Ah. Daddy's favourite."

Her head lifts like I just shot her. Stares at me with wide, wide eyes, bluer than anything. Bingo. I mean, there's always the uncle, always the grandfather, the teacher, the older brother, the swimming coach, but it never is. Daddy's a shot in the half-light, not the dark. "What'd you just say?"

"AC/DC. Your father's favourite. Night music, Ruby? Are you ready? Can I sit next to you, girl? Anything goes. Night Prowler, Sink The Pink, Meltdown, Highway To Hell, Inject The Venom. Story of your life, Ruby." Ruby's on her feet. Well, she's nearly there. Trying, bless her heart. "Oh, don't go, I just mean it has merit, that stuff. There's another good one, oh, what's it called… _What you do for money, honey_-" But this I am calling to the back of the door, which she has graciously closed behind her in her flight from the room. Now I'm alone, now it's quiet, now nothing's writhing about on the edge of my vision, I can curl up and finally enjoy the absence of bloody anything.

I love abuse victims. They're so _easy_, and yet you never know quite what way they're going to go when you poke them. They're the psychological equivalent to a Kinder egg. Some of them run, like Ruby. Some will try to blow you. Some of them bite, actually, those are fun. In short, they're easy to control. Easy to get rid of.

I came here for oblivion, not to listen to Ruby mewling along with the radio. Even if she is a Smiths fan.

* * *

><p>[AN - Much thanks for the kind reviews and PMs so far, ladies and gents. Ideas, con-crit, your thoughts, are always more than welcome. I need the thoughts of normal people cleaning out my mind from these two lunatics. This whole piece is a complete experiment so please let me know how you feel.

BTW, Snowy? Re: Seb's appearance, I'm sure that can be arranged. (And if you feel like looking real close, honey, you might find you've seen him already.)

Hearts- Sal.]


	10. Accompanied:Solo

_Sherlock_

Who the_ hell_ is Jon Darcy?

I'm pretty sure that's what it says. There's a note from last night which, _I believe_, says 'Was Jon Darcy gone to wither?'

'Gone to wither' sounds like poor Jonny might have been dying when last we met. But I don't remember ever meeting a Jon Darcy. Not a massive surprise; there are quite a few things I don't remember. That is rather the point of the exercise.

The odd spelling implies a shortening of Jonathon. That leads to school, leads to Cambridge, but I didn't know any well, and definitely not well enough to know who was dying. Never mind withering. Withering is a strong way to phrase it. Withering sounds like it was something slow and horrible, something leaving him decrepit before the end.

Got thrown out of Hugo's, by the way. Turns out Ruby has friends on the staff. I was asked to leave first, but that's hardly fair. I could hear my own heartbeat, for God's sake, I was busy listening to that. That was nice, you know. Boring, but in a warm, relaxing sort of a way. When it no longer hurts to be alive it can be quite soothing to know one's heart is soldiering on unruffled. So I didn't _hear_ them ask until I was being carried between two of them to be dumped outside.

Outside wasn't too bad. Not the illustrious National Gallery roof, not by a long shot, but I've had worse.

But it does mean I can't go back and ask if any of them know who Withering Jon Darcy is. Aside from, very obviously, a white, middle class invalid. And occasional blues singer…

Maybe he doesn't matter. Maybe he matters more than anything has ever mattered before and I _need_ to remember so I can answer this question. Was Jon Darcy gone to wither, for heaven's sake? _Everything_ could depend on this. Or nothing.

Either way, he's passing the time.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

She's left the door open so I can see, but as the morning comes she's brushing out her thick black hair with harsh quick strokes that leave little strands drifting all over my kitchen floor. I keep telling myself that it's fine, that it can all be swept up. But my face is still on fire where she touched it and I'm having a hard time making it stick. I'd really be much more comfortable if she'd take a knife to some of my more delicate places, but then she knows that. That wouldn't be torture.

She says she'll stop when I admit what I did to her, and when I tell her honestly why I did it. She's said that a couple of times now. When she was filing her nails down to the roots all over my sofa, she shouted through that she'd do that. When she was going about spraying her perfume on all my soft furnishings until the whole flat worked up to a dizzying stink, she was telling me she'd do that.

When I asked for water, and held my head back by the hair and poured it down my throat, she was saying she'd do that.

She just blew her nose on one of my tea towels. I scream for her through the gag and, as she has every other time, she comes as quickly and quietly as a trained pup. Stands perilously fucking close behind my chair and slips the gag away, all hands, all body heat, still all skin. "Yes?"

"I need a piss."

Rounding the chair, perching again on the edge of the table, "Knock yourself out, dear."

"Oh, you're fucking joking m-"

"Well, this can all be over very, very quickly when you just come out and say-"

"I haven't done a bastard thing to you!"

That's a bit too loud for comfort. Danielle, I've learned, has very nimble toes, and her foot shoots up now, hooking the gag, bringing it back to me. It's something about that move, and the speed of it, the straight line-of-sight along her leg and into that obscure shadow between the two of them, but the pad of her big toe brushes a tooth and I clamp my jaw up on it. The gag slides in in the process, but when Danielle yelps, when she slides down off the table, and lands hard on her arse, she knows I'm laughing. Doesn't miss a beat, though; the damaged foot rears back just as fast and is brought thundering down on my groin.

She hears me now, alright, but doesn't laugh. Gets herself off the floor and grabs me by the hair again, tilting my head so she can whisper close and hot, "Done something now alright, haven't you?"

She sways away from me again, and this time ignores me when I call. Says instead, "Your bedroom's just next to here, isn't it? Shares a wall. This wall here behind your head. Haven't been there, yet, actually. Back soon."

Piece of sage advice, from me to you; never bite a woman unless she asks you to. She won't take kindly to it. It will ravage from her the last scrap of decency I've been thanking God for all night and she will no longer hesitate to defile the most sacred of spaces.

I can taste blood, hers, in my mouth. I lean as far as my bonds will allow to one side before I'm sick.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

To hell with Jon Darcy. Oh, but it's not 'gone to wither' after all, it's 'got on the wire'. A criminal, perhaps? Exposed through a tapped phone line. But to hell with him anyway, because I am being spooked. This isn't just comedown paranoia either. I know them when I see them. I see enough of them. It's not so much that you'll see the spook themselves as you'll be aware of being watched, and a car will pass you once too often showing patently too little interest in you and you'll know they're there.

Honestly, Mycroft, MI5 have better things to do with their time. Do you even tell them what it's in aid of? Bet not. Bet they're waiting for me to sell on some special secrets or similar, eh? Or worse yet, do you tell them nothing, and set them out on the street with only their belief, their faith, that they earn their monthly wage serving queen and country, mortally betraying them without ever saying a word? Yes, I suppose that sounds more like you, old bean, old soak, old chap…

If I took off to France would it have to be MI6? I could do that, you know. I could go and get the train down to Folkestone and see if they still follow me. Might make for a diverting afternoon. Then again, I have no idea how to score in France. Mycroft's liable to know that. Acting on this fact, Mycroft is liable to have one of his little friends pick the passport from my pocket and leave me stuck there.

No, France is a terrible idea. Let London be the labyrinth it is and hold me in.

That's it; London as labyrinth. Use that.

There's a whole city here, a different one, within the city itself that people don't know about. A fire escape here, a quick jump there, routes for only cats and madmen and thieves to tread. Dead of night alleys, restaurant back doors.

Of course, the deeper you go, the darker it gets, and you can hear the beast yawning at the centre of the maze, tiring of you and getting hungry.

Or maybe that's just the Tube coming down the track.

I'm not being haunted anymore. Amazing what you can do with a quick dash across the overpass and an Oyster card. Honestly, British Secret Service aren't up to much, are they? I send Mycroft a text to that effect, enquiring just what sort of Commonwealth he thinks he's running.

Rather distractingly, he doesn't rise to it. The reply I get simply reads, 'Come Home'. Strange enough in itself, stranger still since Mycroft hates text and won't use it, but I can't think of any reason he wouldn't have called. Except, perhaps, that he knows I wouldn't pick up.

Because he didn't call me.

Because the feeling in my stomach is not guilt.

Because there is no one else to tell.

I send back, 'Was Jon Darcy got on the wire? - SH'

Quick, too quick for him to have really looked into it for me or to have known anything he had to consider, the answer comes, 'Come Home.'

Googling Mr Darcy, as Jon or Jonathan, yields no one of interest. Thus defeated (one's options being rather limited while on the Tube) I try again, this time couching the request in terms that should rather more appeal to Mycroft's personal tastes.

'Darcy is important. Everything could rest on Darcy. – SH'

Well, it _could_.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

I try very, very hard to pretend I don't know what's going on in my bed right now. But Danielle Mies is exerting herself as greatly to make sure that I do.

The early sounds, the shortness of breath, the low moans, that was easy to ignore. But now it's the groaning, the rhythm of the headboard against the wall not four feet behind me, the Gods and Yeses and if you'd give the bitch anything you'd give her an A for effort. She's having a fucking time of it in there.

All fake, of course.

I hope.

In a way it doesn't even matter because in my head, it's still there. She's still writhing, rapt, in my sheets, gleaming with sweat, rolling herself dry. There's still teethmarks on the pillow and warm, damp patches between them. Worse, greasy smears all over the mattress, trapping the hot, muddy smell of the worst of her like candle wax, profane crosses where she draws her fingers back and forth to clean them.

She knows I don't have to see this for it to be true.

She brings herself off in one great long cry I wish I'd never heard and it leaves me swearing. Leaves her oblivious, giggling down into the pillows.

And for the longest time, longer than fake, it stays that way.

Eventually, "Brr… Cold now… Can I borrow a shirt?" There is no possible way she could mistake the noises I make for an assent. "Thanks." I have to listen to her, unclean, still sweating, still oozing every pore and gland, open my wardrobe and _lean in_, hear the hangers rattle, hear her flipping through, touching everything. Then the finer, sweeter sound of something rich and natural being removed. And the rasp of it sliding onto her.

Then she comes back. Stands in the doorway with the middle two buttons done and the cuffs around her fingertips, posing. It's stuck to the patches of sweat on her skin. It makes me sweat too, a thin trickle I feel run down from my hairline like an insect. "What do you think? Westwood, is it?"

"Wear a lot of men's shirts, do you?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe." She comes over. Stands behind the chair and leans forward to speak in my ear. Just her being this close is enough, every inch of my skin spasms, wants to cry and dry out and fall away. "When you really need to worry is when you hear all that next door, and then you see me wearing one you don't recognize."

"Stop it. Fuck's sake, if you want me to…" I was going to say 'beg', but I didn't like the taste of it.

"Confess," she says.

Says me, "I would if I could."


	11. Stockholm:St Petersburg

_Jim_

She says she doesn't believe me, and yet she puts the dressing gown back on. Actually crosses her legs when she sits back on the table. I get it – it's an invitation. She doesn't believe me, and she won't unless I can prove it. Unless I can _make_ her believe.

"Because _why would I?" _

"Oh, I don't know. From what I hear of you you're a mercurial soul, Jim Moriarty and then there's the fact that I forcibly humiliated you that night. You don't need a reason, and I gave you one. You see where I'm coming from-"

"Well, all due respect, sweetheart, but if you know me to be that sort of sod then why-"

"I can hide places God himself won't find me. I'm going to have to anyway, soon enough."

"I doubt that, and what kind of timer are you on?"

"I've got long enough to make your life unlivable."

"That's another place God got to before you."

"God's not here. I am."

I'm forced to give her that one. "Fair point, well made."

"The only fair and well-made point is that you can't possibly prove to me that you didn't drop me in it, and I'm perfectly content to stay here until I can't anymore. I like your place. It's got a sort of spare, empty quality that lets me get calm."

"Guess where I hid the Caravaggio," I try. "You never know when you'll stumble across it."

It doesn't take. She sees through it and counters in the same breath, "Guess where I hid my underwear." Takes a moment to enjoy my immediate and visceral reaction before she smiles, "Best thing about it, _I'm _not joking."

"…When will you have to run?"

"End of the week? Maybe? Confess or we turn into flatmates, and things stay exactly how they are now."

"Give me ten minutes out of the chair and I'll find out who really did it."

"Ah, but if you didn't do it, why would I let you out of the chair to kill me?"

"…On a scale of one to ten, how insane are you?"

"I'm not insane. It's perfectly sensible."

Of course, love. Exactly as I expected. Mad people never think of themselves as being mad, they think the whole world has come down about their ears and they're the only thing left standing.

Villains never think of themselves as villains.

Nobody sets out to be bad guy. We're all far too familiar with it from when we were kids. Villains get beat. They put in all the effort, they formulate the plan, they take on action and force and they work for it and beat their heads in and live looking over their fucking shoulders knowing always that they're never more than a few days away from some fucking prince or fairy showing up and taking it all away from them with no more than the wave of a wand and a lifetime of good behaviour. It might not be fair, in fact it's _not_ bloody fair, not in the least, but it's how they teach it and it's how it's grained into us.

Nobody sets out to be the villain, it's just something that happens. Maybe along the way you accept it, learn to love the monster you've become, but nobody tells their fecking school careers advisor, 'I want to be the bad guy'. Mostly because they'd put you in years of therapy, these days, but it's not a life goal.

I keep getting drawn back to that one thought I keep having. That Danielle Mies knows exactly what she's doing.

She's not insane. She's not the villain. She's fucking fantastic and she's burning my skin. I hate her to the core of my soul, but kill her? Christ, no.

Now, I want out of the chair, absolutely I do. And I want her out of the flat. I then want the flat power-hosed and everything she touched within it burnt to a cinder. I want a bathtub full of bleach. But her taking off? Her gone? Her running away and hiding somewhere where I can't find her when she was the only reason I didn't end up very much dead? I could be lying here decaying right now, waiting for the neighbours to smell me, only she appeared.

Danielle Mies gone forever?

For all these ridiculous questions, there's only one that matters; how do I convince her I want to help her stay in the country?

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Still getting spooked. Rode that bloody Tube for hours and they're still there when I get off. This is more than just Mycroft being big brother, you know. He's being Big Brother now. You can tell; the quality of the whole operation changes. They stop looking bored. They stop looking like they're working and start looking like they're having fun.

Nobody joins the security services to work. You can tell yourself what you will, be as realistic as you please, but when you are filling out that particular application you are doing so with the Bond theme playing in your head. And you'd never stay if, occasionally, you did not have cause to enjoy yourself.

They think I'm the villain.

_I_ think I would look rather dashing with a white cat, but it's rather beside the point.

Somewhere between getting on the train and getting off the train hours later after doing nothing but watch the demographic of the average daytime tube user (not an interesting pursuit, I don't recommend it) I've done something that has made me of genuine interest to the British Government, beyond being a worrying, feckless relation to the gentleman in charge.

But I didn't do anything.

Sat down, taunted Mycroft, stayed sitting, watched. Sum total of the time that followed; one student-slash-sex-worker (well, debt's a terrible thing), a succession of shambling drunks, two women unwittingly sharing a boyfriend, a suicidal banker and a recently-discharged soldier who stayed on almost as long as I did and only got off because he realized I was still there. I didn't _do_ anything.

The soldier? Still has the haircut, still dresses like he's going to war. He can still see through the city, but it's an illusion. His mind is transposing a known battleground onto a defamiliarized threat. It's a coping mechanism, not a real problem. Time, therapy, a course of mild tranquillizers, it'll fade, recede. Ultimately disappear. Then again, that's what I thought about me, and look how that turned out. I, however, have a less orthodox approach to therapy and tranquillizers than most, _this is not the point_. The point is, it could have been him. Whatever he brought home from Afghanistan, physically or mentally, that could be what they're after.

Afghanistan? Easy. I could tell you, but I'd get bored with the explaining. Just think about it, I'm sure you'll _get there._

But why follow me?

That's the other thing; this is a different set of spooks to before. I know it's another part of town, but I think you'd economize. Surely they have missile crises to be solving, no?

Spooks follow in threes. One right on your heels, the fox. One follows, missing out on you, but maintaining visual contact with the fox. The last is in the area, usually in a car or a café. They cycle round, but they do so in delightfully dull order and you do get to know him. I have a woman and two men currently, but they are getting rather close, which generally they don't, for simple surveillance.

And then a car pulls up. Not the one that the spooks are using. Black windows, long sleek body, all the usual.

The back seat window rolls down. A woman there. She's the brunette hair that was clinging to Mycroft's back yesterday. The tone of it, her height, her perfume, it's all there. The facts you gather previously become a profile and the profile appears before you in three dimensions with an elegant smile and large dark eyes that you can't get from the left-behind traces but suspected because, well, not to put too fine a point on it, but they've all had an elegant smile and dark eyes.

"Get in," she says. "Mycroft wants to see you." Variables: local street map, accessibility, public transport, presence of aforementioned-operatives, any leverage at the moment? I'm sure there's something somewhere, all of this taking less than half-a-second. The lady sees it, though, "Don't even think about it. Those people behind you aren't on his orders, they don't know who you are and they probably won't care if they can get you into custody before he can stop them. Get in."

Her explanation suits the facts reasonably well.

And the spooks are gathering, Fox and Eye in deep conversation at opposite ends of the street.

Compelling argument.

I get in.

She's paying her phone more attention than me. Which puts a thought in my head and I say to her, "Wait, is this about Jon Darcy?"

She doesn't even lift her head. Cuts her eyes at me. The mildest suggestion of bemusement, of a nod. Like I _know_ this already. Like I'm the one toying with her.

"Let's just see what Mycroft says, shall we?"

"…Do you have a name?"

"Yes."

I wait.

Nothing.

Typical Mycroft choice.


	12. Dispatch:Delivery

_Sherlock_

On those occasions when Mycroft decides he requires my presence, I am generally taken to the house, the club or the office.

This is none of the three. This is a _warehouse_. This is the kind of space I'm very good at finding and using indeed, but Mycroft? Here?

The lady doesn't seem surprised at all. She knows her way through unfinished corridors, past empty window frames, without so much as looking up from her phone. Just _love_ to know how much she's got going on in her life that requires her persistent cellular attention, but of course, it's all a sham. This is so I don't feel like I'm important. Like I might have some sort of leverage. Like I might be onto something.

Whoever Jon Darcy is, I've kicked a very nasty beast out of its sleep mentioning his name.

Mycroft is alone on an upper floor. The room is a fifty-square-foot concrete box with only the occasional pillar to break it up, dim, milky light drifting down from high windows. And there at the far end, sitting at a folding table, with a rather elegant china service just pouring two cups of tea, my brother.

"Oh, yes, very dramatic," I announce. "Very Cold War. That's over, you know. The Cold War. They called the whole thing off quite a while ago now. Round about the time they decided to live and let live over the to-may-to, to-mah-to debacle…"

"How very quaint…"

"Yes, yes, I know." This as I am pulling out the second chair. "'No war ends, all wars are cold.' Have you ever thought that might be a fallacy? Frankly, Mycroft, you could stand beneath the mushroom cloud and still turn the world cold so-"

"What do you know about Darcy?"

Straight to business and I've yet to even lift my cup. And people say the British Government is civil. "Enough," I tell him.

"No games, Sherlock. What do you-"

"Who was following me? Your _associate_ seemed to think they had nothing to do with you."

"Not yet. They'll be spoken to."

"They're after Darcy, of course. Poor man, all this attention. So much _pressure_. Well, if they thought I was going to give him up, they've got another thing coming."

"Then you don't know where to find him."

With a toss of the head, deliberately too quick, "No idea, Mycroft, terribly sorry."

This time he shuts up long enough for me to get the tea down my neck. Rather nice, actually. Simple pleasures and all that. Suddenly starving, though; he's caught me at just the right time between doses where I could safely eat. The evening unfolds; out of here quick as possible, fill the tanks, find out who this Jon Darcy is. I like Jon Darcy, he sounds like a _fun_ person to be around.

"They have it on good authority that you met with him this afternoon."

"Well, they're spies, so I suppose you have to believe every word…"

"What did he tell you?"

"Nothing, he wasn't there."

"What about the missing Gilès?" And this, I must admit, this last, that hurts me. Mycroft knows how I worked that out. Mycroft questions me constantly, me and everything I do, every choice, finds me deeply questionable in general, but he doesn't question that. If there is one thing that he and I both know to be definite, and it is the one thing in which I still place my faith and the one thing he knows better than to bloody _question_, it's my ability to make sense of the existing evidence in order to form a cohesive and correct set of facts.

And he says yes, of course, that he believed me. Past tense. Used to. And now that I'm somehow associated with Darcy he doesn't believe me anymore.

So, much as I'd like to finish my tea, much as I don't want to get back into the car with that glorified chav he's dragging around with him these days, I stand up then, push the chair back and turn to leave.

"A woman is dead," he calls after me.

"Just one? Hardly worth your time, I should have thought."

"More will join her, Sherlock. Darcy and Mies need to be stopped, and if you know anything that could help then-"

Mies. There's a new name, a neat little slip. Darcy has an accomplice by the name of Mies.

Of course, it's not a slip. Mycroft doesn't slip. That would imply a level of chance and there is none. Mycroft doesn't open his mouth until every word is vetted and found to be secure. Darcy and Mies, he said. And what he meant was, Sherlock, me and all the king's men are stumped, and I'd be much obliged if you'd pick up a shovel and help dig us out of it.

If only he'd thought of this before the methadone I might have been more inclined to help. Oh, I'll look into it, alright, you try and stop me, but to help Mycroft? No, sorry, not today. Not after what he did. If he wants any more out of me, he can pick me up and ask the questions all over again, thank you very much. If I have to work for it, he can bloody well work for –

A thought stops me just outside the main door. Makes me grit my teeth and lean back in.

"A first name?"

That grimy, self-righteous tone, like he's dribbling out slugs, "Danielle."

I can't even look at him; he'll be smiling. "Thank you."

Again, I try to leave. A moment later, while it might be the last thing I want to do, it saves a lot of time to call over my shoulder, "And the dead woman?"

"Charlotte Stendhal." And now I have to go back to him. The question is implied, but he makes me ask, makes me echo that surname, sounding stupid, sounding simple, and then all he does is nod. "Yes. Pure coincidence, from what we can tell. It's not an alias. Just… _good timing_."

"Not for Charlotte. Thank you, Mycroft."

This time. _This_ time, for certain, I'm leaving.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Danielle Mies was convinced to leave my gag off after she and I enjoyed a ten minute conversation during which it turned out we both attended the same special screening of Romero's _Jack's Wife_ when it was rediscovered a couple of years ago and I pointed out I could have screamed for the neighbours anywhere within that time.

"Wouldn't matter anyway," she admitted, ultimately. "You scream and I show up at the door in your bathrobe. They'd be gone faster than they came."

Somewhere near midday when I was starting to get over the nausea of both being clunked with, she gleefully informed me, my own Valentino shoe (she won't tell me which one), tasting blood, and that perfume she dumped everywhere, she made breakfast. Full Irish. Which is like a full English, only not as good for you and with more deceptively cooked vegetables and less-appetizing parts of the pig. Made it well, too.

But the bitch wouldn't untie my hands even for ten minutes, and decided too that cutlery would make for just too much distance between my mouth and her hands. It… It didn't end well, and there was an incident and… Put it this way, _I'm_ starving and suffering a few minor burns, _she _got a piece of porcelain so deep in the sole of her foot she finally did fetch that cutlery, if only so she could dig it out.

But it's alright. Help is on the way.

Help knocks the door about quarter past two and is already so fecking late that I will later _find_ said-help and… Who knows? If she proves amenable, maybe I'll just set Miss Mies to this sort of torture as a profession. Get her away from the art world, and she has proven so very talented it seems a sin to waste her anywhere else.

Somebody needs to tell the CIA about this, actually.

"Danielle, do you want to work for the CIA?"

"Oh, thereby hangs a tale… No, thank you."

Where was I? Oh, yeah – potential rescue was knocking.

And I knew she'd answer. She was right; as soon as anybody saw her at the door, all strange noises would be 'explained' by the gutter that the average human passes off for a mind. Even if they can't quite figure out how broken plates and puddles of vomit might fit into foreplay, they assume somebody else is getting off on it.

She ties my gown tight around her, tugs it down so it clings to her upper half and splits at the front, just where she wants it to, reminds me to be quiet and goes to the door.

I sit and listen to her flirt with the courier, signing for a package.

Brings it back.

Lays it out on the table. It's large, two or three feet square, a stiff board in plain brown paper.

My secret weapon. Ordered in the Italian round the corner, right after she first promised to visit. I was going to prop it up opposite the front door, like the mirrors on the doors when Vincent Price was the Last Man On Earth. It felt like an overreaction at the time, but I've never been so glad in all my life.

"You expecting something?"

"Yeah. Look, don't worry about it, just leave it, it'll keep-"

So naturally, Danielle can't resist. And it takes everything I have not to just goad her, 'Open it, open it, fucking open it your useless fucking cunt, I've got you now, I'll teach you play on other ordinary, decent people's heart-scared weaknesses you eternal fucking bitch, I hope your heart explodes.'

"Oh no," she smiles, thinking she's getting one up on me. Working her hands all over the brown paper, sensuously seeking out the edges. She tears it slowly, like a striptease, straight across the middle without revealing anything. "No, let's get you sorted out, Jim, hm? If it's something you've been waiting for, you better make sure it's right, at least."

"Please. Please don't."

She tears the paper twice more, down either side. She's ready to throw back those flaps like flower petals.

She moves the first two and everything stops. One hand falls away. Then it flops, useless, as if she's telling it what to do but the connection is faulty. It flops near her mouth, and then near her forehead, and finally falls dead against her chest. It spreads like she's trying to hold her heart in.

The other hand, slowly, knowing it's doing the wrong thing, peels back the last two corners, revealing the entire piece, and she sobs. One single, perfect sound. That other hand folds over her stomach and for a horrible second I'm afraid she's going to be sick again all over the fucking thing, which was too expensive for that shite to be allowed, but she isn't. She just stares.

Caravaggio's _Penitent Magdalene_. Suck that one and see, Lottie Stendhal.

Yeah, you order from eBay, I order from the Doria Pamphilj. She's not the only thief in the world.

She is, however, the only thief in the world currently in silent floods of perfect tears standing perfectly still holding herself over an original on my table.

For a moment, I'm just staring too. Watching her, gauging her reaction, but there's just a little more to it than that. Hard to admit, but there's something pure about the scene, something artistic just in seeing somebody become that invested…

'Invested' is the key to all of this.

She cries the way Mary Magdalene cries.

At the National Gallery, once she'd covered up, she ran without looking back, the way Lot and his Daughters were running.

For this one, single perfect moment, Danielle Mies understands regret as absolutely and overwhelmingly as the converted whore before her.

I clear my throat. Her head whips up to me and this is make or break. It makes her act or I've broken it forever and I'm still done for. But she's still just staring, still lost, still four hundred odd years away, crying on the floor in the ruins of her jewels. She runs out of the room and all I can do is hold my breath and hope she doesn't run right out the door.

But she doesn't. She comes running back with scissors and I really shouldn't be praying but there's always a chance they're about to go through me. I've never done this before, played Svengali with another living creature. Well… Not when the creature was right there in the room and in control of me. Not with only a painting for my back up.

The scissors don't come to rest in my soft, defenceless flesh. She just runs until she crashes to her knees behind me and cuts the rope around my wrists. I wait, and wait, her hacking away and sobbing all the time, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry", which is actually very gratifying.

And when the rope falls, and she comes around to do my ankles, I decide I can probably take care of that myself now.

I'm sullied enough by now that it doesn't burn like it would otherwise when I bring my fist crashing into the side of her head. Lean forward, take her by the hair and bring it repeatedly into the chair leg, face first.

She's out by the third hit, but she gets a couple more. It's not that I can't stop, just that I don't want to.

Then I cut myself loose and stretch out.

Thing is, there isn't really anywhere to go. She's been everywhere. She's touched _everything_, and done it with the intention of my knowing she'd been there. It's very, very difficult to move away from the chair. I swear to you, the only thing that helps me put one foot in front of the other is the thought of what I'm going to do to her.

Danielle Mies leave the country? She's not going anywhere.


	13. Captive:Ally

_Jim_

It's the next morning before Danielle wakes up. I'm glad, actually; it's given me a bit of time to clean up.

Nothing's perfect yet. Haven't touched the living room yet. The bathroom's alright, I've dealt with that. Can't go near the bedroom. And I've tried, please don't think I haven't tried, it's just that my gloves are in there and I'm going to have to make her fetch them for me.

With the judicious use of a sheet she hadn't yet sullied, I managed to move her to the spare room, after I'd removed anything I ever want to use again.

Tangled in that one sheet on the bare mattress, she starts to roll, the first sign of any conscious action since I put a fecking stop to conscious action. There'd been far too much of that on Danielle's part, to date. It's when she nearly rolls onto her smashed-up face that she jerks up, still muttering apologies out of the depths of the dark, raises herself shaking onto one elbow and looks around the room. No idea where she is.

She spots the painting propped up in the corner and immediately shields herself behind the sheet.

"Bastard!" she screams. Screaming probably echoes with her, though. Probably hurts. That's the thing about getting clunked round the head, after all… Her voice drops for the rest, choked and dulled through the damage to her face. "You bastard, you used a _fucking _Caravaggio on me?"

I also broke her nose, probably, and she won't be seeing out of her right eye for a while. There must be a bump on her head like a molehill. Apparently, though, _that's_ all par for the course. A Caravaggio, though, that's playing dirty. That, it would seem, is just a plain cheap trick.

"_Fucking_ Mary Magdalen," she hisses, coiling against the headboard. "Turn it around, would you?"

"No. Love your reaction too much, my dear."

"Oh, you like me pliable?"

"I like you weak, Miss Mies. I like you right where I want you-"

"You like me yours and this is the only way you can manage it, you impotent fuck."

That's not fair.

That's not very nice at all.

So I press the button on the little keyfob in my pocket. When it starts to bleep, Danielle notices for the first time that I've actually been very kind to her. I've given her new jewellery. It's a fine, silver band around her upper arm, clamped tight, holding down a band of padding. So it doesn't chafe, you understand.

Unfortunately, the padding just happens to be plastic explosive and the beep just happens to be a detonator.

"Nah," she says, perfectly calm. "Nah, you wouldn't blow my arm off."

"Oh, wouldn't I just, love!"

"Nah. I'd get blood everywhere."

And maybe I deactivate it again just a moment too quickly, but before the smug smile on her face can turn into a laugh, I explain to her that I only wanted to demonstrate. That I don't have to do it here. That she can't pull the shackle off and that I'm keeping a firm hold of the remote. And before she gets any low, pickpocket ideas, I inform her that I do have a spare and in a very safe place.

"Bullshit," she says, but quieter now.

"Test me."

With a frankly incredible grace and dignity, given the circumstances, she makes herself decent for the first time since she appeared here, wrapping the sheet around her like a toga. Sits on the edge of the bed, forcibly straightens her back, lifts her head. Even beaten and bloody, even utterly defeated like I have her, she manages to be all business. Nearly regal.

Her head is slightly turned, avoiding the sight of the weeping whore in the corner.

She looks like a painting.

But that's a strange thought, one I shouldn't be having and it is, anyway, momentary. She says, "So how do we do this, then?"

"Excuse me?"

"What are the terms? If you were going to kill me I'd be dead by now, if you were going to turn me in you really wouldn't have a leg to stand on as far as this little revenge of yours is going. I'm forced to conclude that you plan to release me at some later stage, and that therefore there must be something I can do to appease you. You wouldn't have gone to all this trouble with no idea how you want it to end."

_Well_…

She had a point right up until the end there. In fact, she had a point I hadn't even been thinking much about as I went through it.

The fact is, I'm almost certain that in any other case, I would have been thinking nigh constantly about what her innards would look like displayed around Nelson's Column, and I might have been finding somebody to take care of that for me. But as I went about the whole harrowing process of moving her here, of making sure I hadn't hit her a few too many times against that chair leg, of recovering my flat from the fact that she'd fucking _been_ there, there were only two thoughts. One: she has to suffer.

That's normal, that's natural. Do unto others. Eye for an eye. That's in the Bible, and when Jesus' own working girl has been so kind to me, who am I to turn my back on that?

Two: I have to hold onto her.

Obviously. So that she can be made to suffer. I need her to be accessible. Hence the hardware on her upper right arm. I have to keep her here. Otherwise she'll run off and leave the country and I'll never see her again. She can never pay for her harsh actions towards me if I never see her again.

Obviously she can't live out in the flat, so I put her in the spare room with the en suite.

Obviously.

It's all just logic, when you think about it.

"Well?" she says.

Me, I pull the chair out from under the table in the corner (well, she'll need somewhere to eat, won't she?), and I sit in front of the Magdalene, propped at a jaunty angle against the kettle (can't be fetching and carrying for her all the time), and I say, "Tell me why you have to take off so soon."

A broken sigh, a grimace; "Oh, Mr Moriarty… I would if I could."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Stendhal.

Any other day, it's a perfectly normal name. A little unusual, perhaps.

Today it's the name of a woman dead in mysterious circumstances and an obscure psychosomatic syndrome that may prove key to catching the people responsible for her death.

As I wrap the tin foil from the KitKat round the top of the steel rule, I start to recap on the facts as Mycroft gave them to me, and the facts that I know to be true.

True: MI5 are very interested in one Mr Jon Darcy.

Mycroft: Jon Darcy is not on Our Side.

Thus armed with an insulated conductor, I slide the ruler between the heavy back doors and upwards, searching out the tripswitch of the night alarm.

True: MI5 believe that I am somehow connected to Mr Jon Darcy. I may or may not have had something to do with that belief. There may or may not be anything to it.

Mycroft (implied): I am believed to be a conspirator in whatever threat Darcy might be posing. Possible this was implied in order to induce fear, thinking to concurrently goad me into action. How quaint my brother's mind is…

The steel rule short-circuits the alarm long enough for the credit card to jam in the bolt and the doors pop open. Now that I'm inside it's just a case of avoiding the orderlies.

True: A woman named Charlotte Stendhal is dead.

Mycroft: Her death had something to do with Jon Darcy.

I resist, because contrary to popular belief I am very good at resisting, the urge to steal one of the abandoned wheelchairs along this dark and disused corridor. Instead I take a left by the incinerator. I came this way once before. In the opposite direction, in the middle of the night and a thousand miles away from my own brain, but nonetheless, the memory stays. I remember correctly, and the morgue is just ahead on the right.

Unfortunately, the rest of my facts are all Mycroft: Darcy has an accomplice named Danielle Mies. The theft of the Gilè sketches is more than just a cultural loss. This is of national importance.

Oh… Oh, please don't think I'm practiced at breaking into hospital morgues. No, no, no. No, I'm practiced at breaking into the _hospital, _for reasons I'm sure I don't need to elucidate. The morgue just happens to be on the map, and that, tonight, has finally proved to be a useful thing. Although I must say, I've always liked the look of the morgue. The space itself is empty, steel and bare. With the exception of the three raised windows, everything that might be counted is already numbered. The equipment is neat and clean, the workbenches agreeably straight, the surfaces gleaming. It has always glinted in the corner of my eye during escapes too quick for a stop. Now, at last, I get to explore.

For instance, now I know that there's a clipboard. The wipe-clean kind, with permanent numbers along one side. And it informs me that I'll find Charlotte Stendhal in drawer six.

Everything in its right place. Simple, clinical, scientific, fact, unadulterated, understood.

God help me, to have been a coroner…

Even the filing is present and correct and in triplicate.

Official line on Charlotte Stendhal is that she was shot once in the head in a possible gang-related incident. Identified by fingerprints after a university-era arrest. Nothing serious, criminal damage, off with a caution. No handbag, no purse, no phone, no identifying features.

I leave my sandwich open on the edge of the bench so that it can acclimatize. I made it, you know. The sandwich, I mean. I had to go back to that flat to do it, but I made a sandwich. From scratch. For myself.

Now I find drawer six for myself, and Charlotte Stendhal glides out.

Not a gang-related incident. Angle's all wrong. Either she was in the middle of a forward roll, the shooter was eight feet tall, or they've got the scenario entirely wrong.

Sandwich ought to be room temperature now. I fetch myself half and bite in, inspecting the wound. Clean entry, rear of the crown of the head. Clean _exit_, more importantly, lower jaw. Beautiful shot, perfectly round holes.

It took me less than half a second to realize this is the result of a rifle bullet. Nothing from a hood's handgun.

Distance too. He wasn't standing over her with the gun to her head. No burns, no markings.

Professional.

Sniper.

Assassination.

Charlotte Stendhal?

"Sorry… who are _you_?"

Oh, I'm no longer alone. It's six-thirty in the morning, so I thought I'd be alright. Quick glance and you see her struggling with an armful of folders, already wearing her white lab coat under the pink and grey outer. Eager. Not a doctor yet. Student, out to prove herself. Maybe in her last year, ready to take off.

Not afraid of me or the fact that I'm here, but that she'll get in trouble for it. Deference to authority, _ah_, there's the pressure point.

"Where's the report on this one?" I say. "Post-haste, Miss…?"

"…Hooper. You can't _eat_ in here."

"The _report_, please."

She's already in the process of fetching it when she asks, "Are you with the police?"

"Yes." When she brings me the report over, I pretend to read it again. Then I hold it open and hold it out to her. "Are you responsible for this?"

"N-_no_… It was Doctor Holloway. He told me not to touch this one, actually; you _really_ can't eat in here." She's the most wonderfully nervous little creature. She'd do anything I told her right now if she thought it would keep her out of hot water.

"Have the other half."

"No, I… I can't."

"You're hungry. Look at you, your skin's loose, touch of jaundice in the whites of the eyes. You haven't had breakfast, you've skipped it to come in here and earn extra brownie points. You shouldn't, you know. Nobody needs a coroner with low blood sugar, Miss Hooper. Shaky hands. Have a half a sandwich. It's very good. It's got mustard. I made it." You see, she can't resist. I told you it was a good sandwich. She takes it, and she hesitates, like Eve before the apple. Then she bites and she's in this as deep as I am. I prop the report open on Charlotte Stendhal's chest between us and stab a finger into it. "Now that you're nourished, look at this and tell me what's wrong with it. I'll give you a clue, start with the big bore hole in the head while I get a look at her feet."

Mild abrasions to the knees, some redness on the shins. Painted toenails.

After a few minutes (as compared to my few seconds; that's about the normal ratio) Miss Hooper starts to draw the correct conclusion. Mutters aloud, in her sweetly confused way, "This is all wrong."

"Isn't it just, though? Glad you agree. What's _your_ conclusion, Miss… Please tell me you have a real name."

"Molly. And she was professionally killed."

"So why have the police accepted this report then?"

"But… I thought _you_ were the-"

"And who needed Charlotte Stendhal dead?" She's _this_ close to raising the alarm, so time for a swift exit, I think. With what is now my copy of the doctored report, I pull my coat about me and head for the door. "Enjoy your sandwich, Molly Hooper."


	14. Procrastination:Motivation

_Sherlock_

Outside the hospital doors, with a quick fag to take the edge off an altogether different craving, I text Mycroft.

-You said Stendhal was dead. Never said you ordered it.

And then I count the seconds. It's a full fifteen of them before the phone rings. Not that I'm answering it. I have no desire to talk to Mycroft, or indeed to have to listen to him. But that took far too long. Five seconds or less would have meant he definitely gave the order, whatever his reply. It takes him five seconds equally to lie or tell the truth. Between five and ten and there would have been something complicated about it, something to consider, but he still would have been responsible. That would have still been a fact. Fifteen is far too long. Fifteen means Mycroft didn't know Stendhal's murder was professional.

And that's even _more_ interesting.

Anyway, dear Charlotte is, nonetheless, a bit too dead to speak to regarding the case. Mies is an unknown quantity, just a name for now. Darcy, then.

I know a good deal about Darcy, actually. He shouldn't be too hard to find.

How? Well, because he's the soldier from the Tube, of course. Oh yes, I mean, once one's head is clear and one gives it a half-second's thought, it's rather obvious. We were on that train a good hour together. He could have told me anything in all that time. He could have blinked it at me in Morse. It could have been a message in a plastic cider bottle rolling down the aisle. You have to think about how it might look to the people following the man; I was there before him and I left only after.

It also gave me more than enough time to create a detailed, accurate profile of the man which is, thankfully, intact.

And once you know you're looking for a recently discharged soldier with something MI5 very much desire and who has managed to effectively hide himself to date, the options are pretty limited.

If I put my mind to it, he and I could be sitting opposite each other again by close-of-business.

But he's hiding well. And Mycroft wouldn't have brought me in, in his own, special way, if MI5 had any way of finding him themselves. And that's quite a feat, you know, avoiding them all by yourself when they are legion and have so much at their disposal. And twelve streetlights. Fifty-two parking bays, nine of which are vacant. The nurse in the blue Micra is Catholic, married, two children, experiencing domestic abuse, though not as the victim. The white coat at the third floor window is a consultant, dermatology probably, and a serial adulterer.

There are sick people everywhere, and I don't mean the patients. I can see them.

Or, to give the short version, what's the rush? Darcy will wait. Darcy will relish the opportunity to wait.

And I can't be expected to meet the trauma of the battleground face-to-face with both feet on the ground. This last cruelty, a sane and civilized society will not inflict upon me.

_London_, though… London is welcome to bloody try.

London can take its best shot. I, this morning, have the best defence, the upper hand, the secret weapon, the _uber-cliché…_

Well, it would be a sin to leave the hospital empty-handed. To have used the same exit route as I used for an entrance would have just made it far too easy for them, and if the alternative path just happened to take me past the pharmacy, that was not for me to question.

You, because you're a good citizen, or more likely because you're a generally thoughtless requiem for good citizenship, think hospital pharmacies are secure. The same way you think you can trust policemen. That newsreaders know what they're talking about and the papers don't lie. All plumbers overcharge, where there's blame there's a claim, banks are safe places to put your money. When you can't see cameras, nobody is watching you. When acorns drop on your heads you think the sky is falling.

My point is, if you're not really going to think, don't bother thinking at all.

My point is, I have three small glass vials of morphine in my coat pocket, and sadly they are more important than Jon Darcy.

The case, however, like all cases, is time-sensitive. The very nature of investigation means it works best following hard upon the crime; less time for evidence to disappear, for circumstances to change, for criminals to take off. A short delay won't do any harm, but really I should get onto this right away. Therefore, any administration of medication should be undertaken immediately.

Craving makes things difficult, though. Craving knows I'd rather be deep in the cotton wool of a perfectly justifiable stupor than end up with all the pointless counts and observations, and so it won't let me access useful information, like where the quiet corners are around the hospital. I'm trying to summon in three-dimensional memory the obscure little alley behind the Ear-Nose-and-Throat clinic and how many windows overlook it, and all I can think is that it's six degrees out here, six of the visible cars are German and six ambulances have come and gone to the emergency entrance below as I've stood here.

Six-six-six. Hello, Mephistopheles.

And hello, Molly Hooper; I've lingered too long. She's out in her white coat, holding herself for lack of the pink-and-grey one, pointing me out to a security guard in a neat black uniform.

Best find somewhere else to spike a vein, then…

Things might take a bit longer than I thought. John Darcy won't mind; he doesn't want to be found. And Charlotte Stendhal doesn't mind. And I'm sure Danielle Mies doesn't need me charging in on whatever she's got on for the day.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

After she'd spent forty minutes in the shower I got worried about her skin drying up. I know she's confined to these rooms, but I don't need little flaky bits of her lying everywhere. So I let the cuff beep for a few seconds, just so she could see she wasn't going to damage it that way. And when she still wouldn't get out I decided to see how she was with music.

I must say, I'm getting some wonderful reactions to the Gnossiennes. She gets so dizzy she starts to _look_ weightless, falling off the toes of one foot onto the other, and all the while asking me, _begging_ me, to stop. She's even deigned to get dressed. She keeps her hands in her pockets, out of the way, just to show how fucking harmless she is. Which is a bit like a dog fetching the stick after it's taken a lump out of you.

Not impressed, love. Not happening for you. Sterling effort, as in all things, but I'm not so thick as your usual crowd.

Gnossienne Number Four and she finally loses her feet. She sits down hard where the bed and the table make a corner, legs straight out, arms limp. Her eyes roll, half-shut, and she mutters something I don't quite catch.

"You do know you look fucking ridiculous? You do know how stupid this is, don't you, darling?"

Whatever she said, she says it again, and I miss it again.

Oh no, Jim, you cry, don't go over there. Don't crouch down close to her. It's a trick, it's a trap, she'll get her mitts all over you, steal the bomb remote and be out of the door before you, Mary Magdalen or all the Earthly Delights there are can stop her. She'd take the chance on the spare remote; I would.

That's fair enough. And I must say, it's nice of you to be thinking of me, I appreciate that. But the fact is, you're not here. You can't see her. She's useless, and nobody would be able to _conceive_ of acting quite so uselessly over such inconsequential stimulus if it wasn't real. Danielle Mies isn't even here anymore.

When I get to her, she is almost smiling, and yet her face is infinitely sad. What she's saying, over and over, is "Take the arm."

She smiles it up at me.

"It's alright. It doesn't matter. Take the arm."

Which is when the Satie gets turned off and if I thought it could safely change it to Knees Up Mother Brown without sending her into bodily shock, I would.

"You listen to me, girl, you are not to bring suicidal ideation back into this flat, is that understood? And that includes references to mutilation, deformation and self-harm of any kind, or submission to harm from any other source."

All she says, covering her ears now that it's too late, is "Thank you."

Her eyes open, slowly, and then lift up to me. "Your poor hands." She reaches out, remembers where she is and who I am, and grabs the sheet down from the bed. With that between us she takes hold of my fingers, turning them over to study them. "Oh, someone's scrubbed them bloody. You shouldn't do that, you know. The arm doesn't matter. The arm is just an arm, it's just _her_ arm, of all things, but not your poor hands, not…" And like an old fashioned ghost, from under the sheet she reaches up, brushing over my cheekbone, "Not your poor face… You shouldn't do that, it's not good for-"

She stops dead. Her eyes dart about, and she seems to realize properly what's been happening. Which is good, if I'm honest, because I'm not sure what I'd do with her if I actually drove her mad. Her face turns vicious and she tries to fight her hands out from the sheet, makes a grab for me, but I'm across the room and behind the Magdalene before she can manage it. Danielle falls back into her corner, averting her eyes. "Satie?" she chokes, hoarse, "Seriously?" She's trying to be brave, pouts like it's all nothing to her. "It's not even music. Even _he_ never called it music. It's just sounds and… and _bloody_ good timing…"

"What do you have to run away from, Danielle?"

Regaining control, voice strengthening, she starts to laugh. "That lying, alcoholic, frigid Frenchman has about as much chance of getting me to talk as a certain lying, alcoholic, frigid Irishman I could mention."

I turn the music back on. This time, I lock her in.

Suffer, Danielle. If you're going to fight when I only want to help you, you can fucking suffer for it.


	15. Tom:Tiger

_Jim_

Listening to the delicate piano through the wall, and Danielle muttering and moaning to herself, I put together a little excursion. Book tickets, book cab. Get a suit sent round from the usual place; they have the measurements so there's no need for a fitting and they're quick. It's just until I can get back to my own wardrobe. That's her fault. So it's her fault that she has to endure a few hours of modernist technical excellence while I wait.

By the time I open the door again she's curled up in the corner with the sheet wrapped around her, sweating and shuddering and sick, and she's about ready to do as she's told.

"The fuck are you all dressed up for?" she manages. You have to admire her when she's being brave. She knows I can keep her here far longer than she ever could have kept me; she won't break until she absolutely has to.

"Do you think you own something comparable?"

"I don't know, you are _resplendent_." Hard to tell if she's being sarcastic; what she says is entirely true. I'm in brand new slate-grey on a dove shirt, blue tie, black overcoat. You don't even joke about this. In her current situation I could forgive her for trying, but I'm pretty sure she's serious. "I'm sure I could throw something on at home…"

"Get up. Keep your hands in your pockets. You're going to walk ahead of me and do absolutely nothing to annoy me in any way, if you value your right arm."

"I'm left-handed," she says, but she's getting up anyway. "You know I'm left-handed."

"Not much good for swinging off buildings with one arm, are you?"

"No, but I'd get along. Why my right arm?"

I move out of the doorway so she can walk ahead and tell her to shut up.

"Well, can I talk about something else? It helps move the… all the dizziness and the headache and all that stuff, to the back."

Certainly, Danielle. I'd love to get you back to full capacity for a little while. I want you to feel safe again, Danielle, and I want you to know that I'm on your side whether you like it or not. Because then when it hits you again it's going to hit you all the harder, and when you sink back into it, when you're not in control of yourself, maybe that animal part of you won't be thinking of me as the villain.

"Batman or Superman?"

"Batman, all day long."

"Batman or Zorro?"

"Tougher question. Who's dark as hell _and_ charming as the devil?"

"…Get in the lift. Ground floor. Cab's waiting."

I'm vulnerable in the lift. It's a confined space and if she chose to attack, she could have the detonator remote off me and me out of action pretty quickly. If I know that now, she was expecting me to make her take the stairs.

She doesn't attack. She says, "Wonder Woman or Batgirl?"

I tell her, "Batgirl."

"Ah, but Babs or Cass?"

Tougher question. Who's got smart and determined _and_ beautifully broken going on?

I give the cab driver the address I have for her, the one I got off Hugo. The emptyish flat with no food and mismatched boxsets. She laughs, leans forward and tells him somewhere different. "That's my work place. If I need a dress, I need to go proper home."

I don't know this other address. It could be anywhere. She sees me thinking that and laughs. Tells the driver to go, despite my concerns.

"You haven't even asked me where I'm taking you."

"You have me on a very effective leash, Mr Moriarty. You're taking me wherever you want."

She's understanding, acceptant. There's an honest accord between us on that point.

That's why I go up with her to her flat.

Trendy building, trendy part of town, just outside Camden. This flat is nothing like the other. It's packed, the furniture mismatched, picked up at markets and second-hand shops. The bookshelves are crowded, the collections chaotic. There's a cat sprawled on the back of the sofa.

"Listen," she says, "I know this is somebody else's space, but if the cab's waiting and I have to cover up some of the mess you made of my face, do you think you could manage to feed Treadstone for me? The tins are under the sink, you just need to open one. He's not fussy."

I quite like cats, actually.

Danielle disappears into a bedroom at the back, and at first Treadstone follows her. But like any animal, he knows what he needs. With my little finger, I hook open the cupboard under the sink. It creaks, and by the time I straighten up he's on the breakfast bar behind me, waiting. He allows stroking, scratching behind the ears, even deigns to nuzzle against a palm when one is offered. Probably that's all because I'm holding the food, though.

Holding the metaphorical tin of Whiskas is the only way I've gotten anywhere in this life. But Treadstone is just an animal, with very little to offer me except warm fur, so I don't make him wait long.

And when Miss Mies emerges, less than ten minutes later, she smiles over at me stroking the scarred patch behind Treadstone's left ear.

"I _knew_ it was just humans."

"Excuse me, dear?"

"I have a theory on you."

"Keep it, would you? We're running late."

I can take her by the elbow now. She's dressed herself in a knit, batwing dress with a cowl neck that covers her admirably. That's nice of her; it would have been easy for her to wear something with a lot of flesh to it. That's what I'd have done to me, in her shoes.

Which are very nice, now that I look at them. Honestly, I've come to expect nothing less than impeccable taste. Especially when she confirms she wasn't being sarcastic about my suit.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Jon Darcy is staying a rooms-by-the-hour hotel in Soho, and to my knowledge he is the only non-whore in residence there.

I said it earlier, that he wouldn't be difficult to find. It has to be a place like this, with one blind eye permanently turned and lax record keeping. It's not that the man at the desk wouldn't sell him up the river in a heartbeat, it's that he's not paying enough attention to know who's up there. And in the end, having a nice calm day on the sofa, having a quiet brain for a few blissful hours, did me no harm at all. I would have had to leave my approach until dark anyway.

With my coat slightly off my shoulder, and having had a quick spritz of lager under either arm, round the neck, about an hour ago, I'm in an appropriately stale and sorry state to bang at his door. To keep on banging when he shouts through that I've got the wrong room, to happily fall inside when the door finally flies open and he's yelling at me to piss off.

Once I'm in, I say, quite stern and sober, "Charlotte Stendhal?"

Jon Darcy quietens down. Closes the door. Checks over his shoulder; the window must be an option or he wouldn't have taken the room. This goes beyond basic training. He's got SAS written all over him, in his walk, in the shape of his body, the brute intelligence of him. More than that too; he's been through more than even the average. There's a fine oily sheen on his forehead, black skin glowing like burnished wood, and I imagine it's been there for a while. Trauma coupled with terror.

"You police?"

"No."

"Military." He speaks telegraphically. Used to time limits. Running.

"No. Nor Her Majesty's either."

"Who the hell are you then?" But he's not looking over his shoulder anymore. There's a whiskey bottle next to the bed that I'd say he's been sitting companionate with for quite some time, and while I stay standing he returns to his former position. The smell of the room is old. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, the vomit of hangovers, all of this, yes, but more importantly, the smells of someone just being here for far too long. He's been hiding out since long before the Gilè drawings disappeared.

There's also a handgun under the pillow. He reaches for it and I let him. I myself don't mean him any harm, after all. I just won't talk myself into a hole. Couldn't be too difficult.

"I'm an interested party. I've got a lot of information and it could help you or it could help them."

The gun comes up to point at my chest.

Bit annoying. I don't think I said anything wrong.

So I try again, "Who was Charlotte Stendhal, really?"

"Nobody. Who are you, really?"

"About the same." Now that I see him without his khaki, military cut jacket, I see the tattoo on his arm. A single line of Chinese dropping from shoulder to elbow, the first characters just legible through the worn white t-shirt; _Knowing well that tigers roam these hills_.

That's all it says.

It's an old proverb. The line which completes it would read, _Into these tiger-hills I venture_. But there's no sign of another line. Either Jon Darcy's got no Chinese and the tattoo artist did him over, or the pain was too much for him, or that other line is somewhere else.

"So if you're nobody why shouldn't I just kill you now?"

"Well, I might be nobody, but I know a lot of somebodies and much as I might despise them all, they'd look. If Stendhal was nobody then why was she killed?"

"…Because she was with me." He doesn't say it because he wants to tell me, or because my line of questioning is so charming and compelling. He's confessing. Guilt. Powerful motivator, no doubt. Never quite understood it; he's sat here telling me he didn't kill her and being guilty over it. "She wasn't anybody, I only met her that night. But they thought she was…"

I only have one name left, but it seems like a good bet, so I throw it in. "Danielle Mies?"

Darcy's head snaps up. In a half-second, apparently, I've dug that hole I was talking about. He crosses the room in three steps, barrels me against the wall on the fourth and pushes the gun up under my chin.

So Mies isn't the way to go with the conversation, then.

"What do the SIS want with you?" I choke. "Tell me. I can help you, if I want to, but I have to want to."

"I can kill you, if I want to, and I do."

"That doesn't make it a good idea, though."

He doesn't let me go, but the gun definitely lowers. Slightly. Maybe.

"You can't help me. It's in my head, it's what I done, and-"

"Do you want to run, is that it? Do you want to get away?"

Darcy stares at me for a while. Then smiles. Mean and desperate, and the smile breaks into a laugh of the same calibre. He lets me down from the wall with the gun hanging at his side and laughs. "You know those boys?"

"…One of them."

"Well, you tell your mate, from me, that I might still be here but the thing they're _really_ afraid of? That's gone. That's far, far away. And if they want to keep their stinking fucking secrets secret? All they have to do is leave me and the woman alone. Her and me both have access, her and me can both bring it out at any time we fucking wish. And if either of us is found dead, it comes out anyway. We just want to be safe, that's all."

That raises far, far more questions than it answers. I choose the most pertinent, the most likely to lead to further information, and open my mouth to ask it.

Promptly, the muzzle of the gun fills the gap between my teeth. Darcy steps close again, holding me by the side of the head and, in this manner, guides me towards the door. "How are you with tigers, son? Ever met one? Vicious big fuckers, they are. They're all power, y'know. You can feel it off them. It moves under their skin, in the muscles, in the bones of them. They're born to it. And even if you get a tiger hurt or sick or dying, he's a dangerous big bastard. More so then, in fact. They'll really fight you then, my son."

He reaches beyond me, opens the door. The gun's not a massive issue around here, I shouldn't think. A passing prostitute in the hallway stops to watch and seems unfazed. Jon Darcy holds me where I am and hisses, "You've got your message, mate. Off you pop."

Then and only then does he remove the gun from my mouth and close himself back inside. I am hair-close to texting Mycroft the address right then and there, except that I become aware of eyes in the side of my head.

The prostitute.

"Can I _help_ you?"

She looks at me, looks at Darcy's door, back to me and shrugs. "Whatever get your rocks off, honey."

I still text Mycroft.

All it says is that we need to meet.


	16. Cavatina:Cabaletta

_Sherlock_

Mycroft condescends to come to me for once. Albeit at that flat again.

And hasn't he got something to be _proud_ of… Oh, yes, boys and girls, but doesn't he have a relatively clean, animated brother who's proving useful to society. Well, he thinks he does. I haven't actually told him anything yet.

For the record, I'm not relatively clean, I'm just between shots and suitably distracted, but he doesn't need to know that. He's even brought food, bacon sandwich by the smell of things, white bread, brown sauce, not the place around the corner but the van that stops out on the main road. He's had the car stop, had the PA hop out for it, and been disgusted with himself for doing even this much. I wonder if it's strange for him to be useful to somebody.

And for the record, I haven't yet decided whether or not to be useful to society.

I am, however, being civil, and expressing civility as best Mycroft will be able to understand it; I'm making tea.

"Your charming secretary not joining us?"

"She's eaten, thank you."

"I know, Mycroft, it's all over your face, but has she had breakfast?" It's a lie, and it's a low blow, but it's worth it to see him blush.

He clears his throat, straightens his back. "You said in your message that you had something for me?"

"No, I inferred it simply by the act of sending said message. All the message said was that we should probably have a word."

"Have you anything or not?"

Sharp with me. Irritable, and not just _because_ it's me, which would be the usual. For perhaps the first time I wonder just how big this case really is. Maybe it's wrong of me to toy with him. Maybe this is one of those occasions when frank and open exchange of information is the best course for all involved.

Or maybe this is my brother and the idea of just giving up to him is such a fetid cancer upon my very soul that I can taste it in the back of my mouth.

"Charlotte Stendhal was a whore," I tell him. Painted toenails, remember? Chipped from getting on and off the ground in strappy shoes. Worn out knees. "She spent one night, less than a night actually, with Jon Darcy and was shot, from a distance, by a professional with a high-powered rifle. Given that there's no logical reasoning behind the act I'm forced to assume your semi-Secret friends were involved somehow."

"Actually, no. I looked into that. We have no record of any such shot being fired."

I laugh, "No _record_?"

"_I_ would be able to find out. _Mea innocentia_, it would seem."

"But you know why I suspected-"

"Of course. You believed we took her for Mies. Had we been there, had we seen it, it's more than likely-"

"You don't know what Mies looks like."

"It's a false name. She's very good about covering her face when she works, cameras or no, so there's no visual data available on her."

"When she works?" Mycroft sits back, gets all coy, gets that smug, one-up-manship smile on his face, says surely I've figured that out by now. And I have. Of course I have. It's just that I've got a mouthful of bacon sandwich and I'm rather enjoying the lull between comedown and craving, so I missed the reference to it just now. As soon as I've chewed through this especially resilient piece of fat, I'll tell him exactly what he meant by Mies's work and prove it too. In a minute. Won't take a second. Just a moment to chew it over. Then I sit up and say, "You call art theft work?"

"Only when somebody's very, very good at it."

Mies is the thief who stole the Gilès, is attached somehow to Darcy, and the two of them are wanted enough to get nameless people killed, though apparently not by MI5 just yet, leading to the assumption that there are other players with high-powered rifles at their disposal.

I _think_ this is fun. All I have for the moment is disparate facts that _indicate_ fun without ever actually getting there.

"I need to know why the government are so interested in soliciting and grand larceny." One connecting thread to turn the little scenes into a story, and a story to tell myself when the pain comes, and a story with gaps, and the gaps to fill when the world is cruel and it's easier to look at the holes where there is nothing. Gaps are good. You fill in gaps. Gaps make sense of the world. But Mycroft is just sitting there. Sipping his tea. Not giving any sort of a story to go on at all. Not cricket, Mycroft, not helping, dammit, it's the methadone all over again. "What have they done, Mycroft, what makes them important?"

Something's going on in his head, but there's nothing surfacing. All that tells me is he's hiding something, which tells me nothing. The longer it goes on the angrier it makes me and this is not the time; it's starting again. That itch in the back of my head, only this time it's not counts. This time it's theories. This time it's possible stories to fill the hole he's leaving me with. But they're not necessarily true, and it's a waste of time, disinformation I can't afford and please, please, Mycroft, give me something to work with.

He says, "I'm afraid that's classified."

No. No, no, no, no, no. No, don't do this. I need this, don't take this away from me now.

"Perhaps, Sherlock, you should stand clear of this one."

"…You brought me _into_ it."

"Then perhaps I was wrong."

Mycroft stands up. Like that's an end to it. Like that's all there is. He excuses himself and he _leaves_.

He knows, doesn't he? He must. How could he not know, when he said that, that all he would do was make me more determined?

Yeah, he knows.

I might not have a story to connect the facts. What I do have is that most tantalizing, most delicious of words, _Classified_.

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Darcy gave me a message to pass on and a bullet for incentive, and I didn't do it. But until I know just what exactly I'm handing back to Mycroft, he doesn't get Darcy. He doesn't get Mies. And he definitely doesn't get this mysterious _classified_ something that makes them so delightfully important.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Danielle's done so well so far at staying brave. I'm almost disappointed when she can't sustain it anymore.

Those white columns come into view and she panics. Not an awful lot shows, but the lower lip sticks out, the eyes fill. She reaches for my arm before she remembers who I am. Her hand hovers, seizing, just over my sleeve. She doesn't exactly beg. She says, "Please don't." She doesn't look at me, averts her eyes like a nun praying. "Please don't."

The taxi pulls up then and stops. Me saying, "Oh, darling, I thought you'd like it." Me stroking the cuff on her arm through her dress. "I thought it would be just your thing."

Neo-classical, marble-fronted, Covent Garden always looks more like a bank than an opera house to me. To her, I imagine it looks like a prison.

Not a bad crowd, for the midweek. It's all the usual; the posh lot who come as a matter of course, the nearly-posh lot there to be seen, the true fans that don't dress up for the occasion, the music students who deliberately won't dress up because it's all about the art, man. But Danielle and I are alone. Nice cosy box, stage right, not too high up so she'll be able to see everything that's going on. I've got champagne on ice and everything. Not that she appreciates it. She puts herself down in her seat like her legs won't hold her, gripping the ends of the arms as if it's going to tip her out any moment now.

"Relax, gorgeous. Have a drink."

She accepts, gratitude looking like greed. Half-gasps at me, "What's the show?"

"_Otello._"

"Christ… I'm gone by the drinking song... I'll scream."

"Oh, don't do that. Don't make it easy for him."

Because she's drinking, because she's getting herself all wound up, because I'm leaning from my seat towards hers and she's recoiling, it's all taking a while to sink in. But when she does open her mouth to put it to me, there's no shock, no surprise. Whatever I might be about to visit upon her she doesn't put it past me. I let that gratify me more than I really should.

"What easy for who?"

"Aw, Danielle… I wasn't even going to tell you. I didn't want to spoil the evening. Treadstone's out of the bag now, I suppose, perhaps best…"

"Enough bullshit, please." She starts to reach for the champagne bottle. I get the feeling a healthy, quick buzz might be helpful to her in surviving this, so I stop her hand with the edge of a ticket.

"Language, dear, we're amongst the gentry. No, some nasty sod's gone and called the Met. Gone and told them their Stendhal-suffering thief is going to be here tonight. They know what they're looking for, see, so I wouldn't scream, love. Not if you value your freedom."

She looks at me and she visibly shakes. I didn't think she'd shake. All that before, that was just blind panic. That was knowing what's coming, knowing it's a public space. Now she shakes. The panic goes out of her because when I say that she becomes genuinely afraid.

Two things.

The first is a quick mental note that her freedom obviously means a great deal to her. Which could be a useful thing to know, given I've got her on a leash.

The second is a record, for later investigation, of the cold, steely ball that suddenly forms at the base of my ribcage, like someone pouring cool liquid metal down my throat. I'm not sure quite what that feeling indicates. It's not even that familiar. The only association I can put with it is, oddly enough, of a dead cat. Half-on, half-off the footpath. Somebody hadn't seen it when they were parking. The more I think about it, that might be my first clear memory. I was maybe five. Khaki green Fiat 127. Can't remember what colour the cat was. There wasn't much left of the cat.

"What have you done?" she breathes out. Talking to herself more than me, but the ball tightens, gets colder. "Fucking hell, you've killed me."

"Hardly. This is a civilized country."

She laughs, one single desperate note, "He's still talking about the cops and all…"

"Why? Who are you talking about?"

She shrugs. "SIS? Mark five _and_ six, thank you very much, not to mention a privately owned American militia who are probably already assembling their rifles across the street, so you better get me out of here, the back way and fast. Because they will kill me, and I will be dead, which would make me less than useless to you."

No.

Nah, no way. She had me up until 'American militia'. What's an art thief got to do with the kind of international politics that can afford those cowboys? No, sorry, love, it was a great act and a great gambit, but you've overplayed your hand, I'm afraid.

"We can leave any time you like and through any door. You know what I want from you."

"Then I'll run. You can have my arm if I means that much to you. I can live without the arm."

"No, dear." Through my handkerchief, I hold her wrist clamped to the arm of the chair. "Not the best plan. Now, if you think you can sit there and enjoy the show without making a spectacle of yourself, you try it. _Or_ you can just tell me what sort of trouble it is that you're in?"

Out in the lobby, the bell rings for the two minute call. Seats start filling. I'm watching below, looking out for the man from the Met (you can always spot them) and yes, oddly enough, there are spies among us. No unsightly military American types, though. And you have to give the security types the benefit of the doubt too; they can't help the way they dress, the way they walk. There must be some artistic souls in their ranks. Still, it's odd to see them out and about, and two or three of them definitely, and it's thus engaged in this thought that I don't realize until far too late how Danielle's other hand moves across her and settles on the back of mine.

Her fingertips move far too lightly over my knuckles and she's telling me softly. "It's just humans, you know. It starts out with people avoiding you because they're afraid. And you think to yourself, to hell with them then. If they don't want me, I won't bother with them. It gets to the point where you can't remember the last time someone so much as brushed against you on purpose. And you can live without it, of course. And time wears on and it gets worse and it gets worse, until eventually you come to think of even skin contact as an admission of weakness. Like saying you need somebody. How am I doing so far?"

I swallow back the threat of bile and take a cue from her; I get brave. I lean almost into her, so close I can feel the heat of her face and I whisper to her, "_Now in the dark night, all noise is silenced._"

"Because 'Shut up' is just too straightforward."

"End of act one. You won't even _make_ it that far."

Danielle darts in and kisses my cheek to make me pull away again.

She rages at me, all but snarling. A second, less than that, of eye contact, before the lights go down.


	17. Divided:United

_Jim_

"Fair play to you, love," I say to Danielle, the first time the lights come up. "That's act one. Lost that bet, didn't I? Not a noise from you. Have to say, I'm dead proud of you. I honestly am. You can, however, _fucking_ let go of me now." Her hand stayed on mine, and ten minutes in, it tightened. And I was thinking to myself it was alright, I would live, I could put up with it, when I was putting her through so much already. It's starting to itch, though, so in the interests of me not getting impulsive and blowing her arm off to end the irritation, thus throwing away all the leverage I have, I'd like her stop now.

She's got sort of a death grip thing going on, though.

I look around at her. She's pale, looks almost dead, pressed back tight in her chair. Silently crying, but so much and for so long her face is slick with it.

"They're here," she says. Her voice, actually, is admirably level, considering.

"Who's here?"

"Over in the Gods. He's got a rifle and clean shot at me if I get up. See him?"

I look along the clean-shot line to a standing Danielle and do you know what, yes, I do see him. He's got a sidewall buzzcut and the shaky, dead eyes of a Marine, one of which is partially obscured by the black barrel sight of his rifle.

""And you didn't believe me," she scoffs. "In fairness, he's very distracting. He's the only reason I'm not unconscious. So you better get me the hell out of here or nobody will be alive to tell you a bloody thing. And should anything happen that you could have prevented I swear to almighty Christ, I will make those first days you knew me feel like time in an isolation tank, alright?"

"So tell me something I want to know," I say. Which sounds like a brave move, in the circumstances, but you can't see how low I am in this chair. The interval's the perfect time. There's nobody in the auditorium to see him and he can escape in the crowd outside.

"So help me, you'll be back in that chair and I'll be lap dancing."

"You wouldn't fucking dare." But she would. It's in her eyes. When you cage someone like Danielle Mies, she doesn't make empty threats. In fact, if she thought she could safely escape this place without me, I'd be dead by now. I may well be dead if I stay with her, and we cleared that up; that's not something I want anymore. And certainly it would never have been over her. Not happy to die over Danielle, thank you very much.

"One thing, Danielle. When that first bell rings he's going to shift over two seats and pull that trigger and you know it. One thing for me to go on."

"You're a bastard," she groans. Writhes. Whatever she's about to say, it's tormenting her, so I know she's not about to lie. She wouldn't get this wound up about lying to me, or to anyone. "_Gilè_," she manages eventually. "Gilè's _Lady and the Tiger. _It's all there, you just have to know how to look at it. The Hickman has the original, but Google Image'll do the bloody trick. That's all I can tell you. If you can put the rest together, fine, and I pity you, because you don't want to be involved in this, but that's as much as I can say to you straight." And from the look in her eyes, it's the truth, all of it. She can say no more and she pities my knowing even this much. "I'm sorry I got you into this."

That's it. This time she needs my help. This time I'm helping.

I can get out of my chair, I'm safe. So I get up, round to the other side of hers and tell her, when I give her the word, to get up as quick as she possibly can.

"I'm going to miss these shoes," she sighs, slipping out of them. Her bare feet are strange and unfortunate, and the shoes do look lonely. No time to worry about that, though; I hook a hand under her arm, count back from three. When she hops up, I pull her in against the wall, and in that same moment the shot rings out, leaves the bullet lodged in the wall.

A good aria can make her scream like a little girl, but rifle shots?

"Left or right out the door?"

"Left."

"Easy into the corner, I'll get it open." She can fling herself out, grab it open. Use it as a shield when the second shot splinters the wood. She throws me across her by the cuff and follows me out. "I don't know this place," she calls, "You have to lead."

"What's wrong with the front door? If they're evacuating, who's going to fire into the crowd?"

"That's where the Vauxhall boys will be. Back door."

"You do this often?" I shout over my shoulder. "Running for your life, I mean."

She catches me up at a fire door, almost laughing, "We survive, remind me to tell you about Myanmar. Funny fucking story."

"How did your militia boys find us? I get that the tip to the Met goes to the spooks but them?"

"I don't know. I've been hiding at yours, so I don't think they've got the drop on me. And you weren't involved until I got there so-…"

She stops.

At the last fire door, as I push it open, she stops.

"What?"

She grabs me by the lapels, shoves me out into the open, shouting, "You daft bastard!"

"_What_?"

"I was never safe! I was never hidden! You, they were onto _you_. Fuck's sake, they followed _you_!" Because I don't respond, because I'm sure my utter shock must be fucking evident, she calms, stops shaking me. "That day, the first day, you weren't supposed to be the courier. You replaced the courier. You were in it from the start and they knew me or Moran would be watching-"

"-You or who?"

"-So they followed you."

In disgust, she shoves me away. And honestly, it's a good thing she does, because from across the street opposite the stage door, a bullet passes between us, so strong and so fast that if we'd been where we were it would have torn both our faces off.

A millisecond, a single glance.

Her one way, me the other, we run.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I want Mies. I want to find Darcy again and find out enough from him to be able to find Mies. One or the other of them won't tell me what it is they have, but I can play the two off against each other and discover it for myself. I'm planning an interesting covert evening and so again, I leave it until after dark.

As I open the door, the plan disappears in a puff of smoke. D.S. Lestrade is at the door.

I'm on the long, sweet exit of a low-grade morphine high, so I'm in a position to notice that he's not looking the best himself. Having a long couple of days, I should say, and not ministering to them properly. Too much fast food, too many quick drinks to counter sleeplessness. Too many dead ends and no clue what to do about them.

I love CID, they always come crawling back.

His opening line, "How the _hell_ did you get into that morgue?"

"Magic."

"You're lucky nobody else at the station recognized the description."

"Yes, well, accuracy doesn't seem to be their strong point."

He doesn't move. Apparently I'm not going anywhere tonight, or not just yet anyway. I move out of the doorway so he can come in. "Nice place. Wish I had family like yours."

"Don't."

"What?"

"Wish. I'll feel just terrible if it comes true for you."

I could offer him a drink, but I have no desire to watch a man disintegrate in front of me, and he's moments from that. Or milligrams per litre of blood, however you want to measure it. Another night, when I've got nothing on, maybe. But right now I want him out of here, so I offer coffee instead. Then he accepts, the bastard, so I have to actually make it.

But to his credit, I'm not the one who has to cut through all the bullshit for once.

"Charlotte Stendhal," he begins.

"Mmh. Lovely name, but I'm getting a bit bored of it now."

"Not a gang-related incident of a death, I hear. As does everybody hear. Your new friend at the hospital pointed it out, rather loudly, before anybody could shut her up."

Unfortunate. Note to self: check on Molly Hooper. Word with Mycroft. Not her fault. Don't kill her.

"You've seen the body, Detective?"

"I have."

"And you agree with me?"

"Yes."

"Then explain the first report to me."

"Officially? The coroner, Holloway, had an off day. Made a mistake."

"Well, it happens to the best of us. Unofficially?"

"Somebody was covering up."

I like that he's honest about it. He's not keeping anything from me, not toeing anybody's party line. In my own, quiet way, I am happy to have made him coffee. I put it down in front of him and he seems grateful. I get this funny feeling in my throat, but it's probably just the comedown. My own mug is just for show; no point in sobering up prematurely.

"MI5," I tell him. "That's where the cover up comes down from. Obviously you didn't hear it from me." That shocks him. I give him a moment for it to sink in. I learned the hard way and over a prolonged period that most people haven't had the exposure that I have to the security services, and are really much more receptive if they don't feel like you're rushing them. "If you're a very sensible person, or a not very courageous person, you should accept the cover-up and walk away."

He nods. Sagely. I light up a cigarette, prolonging the high, and he takes one too. He thinks about it for a good minute. Then says one of the nicest things I've heard in days –

"What if I'm stupid and brave?"

"Chase it, force it. Do it well, they'll make you Detective Inspector with an eye to DCI at the briefest decent interval."

"Not to mention it's the right thing to do."

"Um… Yes, I… I suppose it is…"

Bloody hell, I'm doing the right thing. Been a while, certainly. I should hope the right thing and I aren't so ill-acquainted these days that it'll reject me. I'm only trying to help, after all. Apparently. Maybe it wouldn't feel so strange if the right thing and I hadn't parted ways quite so deliberately. In that I _looked_ at the right thing, saw within the black abyss of its eyes the utter extinction of all potential, looked at what it had done to my life so far and decided to try something new.

I hope the wrong thing doesn't get offended with me. I can't see this new partnership lasting.

"So?" Lestrade says. Raises his mug, waiting for mine, fag sticking out between his fingers. The soberest toast I've ever borne witness to.

Strange, quaint kind of a thing, isn't it? Do people still do this kind of thing? Do they pledge allegiance, sign up with each other? It's not like Mycroft. Not like Mother, not like Cambridge, not like the doss houses. Do other people, real people, do they still do this? People who do the right thing, I mean.

Apparently.

I lift up the mug and knock it to his.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr Holmes-"

"Sherlock." Said that too quick, didn't I? Have to start thinking about these things more.

"_Sherlock_. I've got nothing to go on."

"I have two names, at least one of which is false and the other I wouldn't recommend visiting, unless you like the taste of gunmetal."

Lestrade looks like he might ask, decides against it. He laughs instead, taps ash. "Well, it's a start." Flips open a little notebook like the police in films, not the ones from the Met. For all the clichés, he's intriguing, because none of them really fits, when you look closely at them. "Let's be having them, then."

I open my mouth to tell him, but his mobile rings.

"Fuck's sake," he hisses. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Chief Inspector. I have to take this."

It's irritating, if I'm honest. Bit rude.

Within fifteen seconds, though, I've forgiven him.

'Shots fired.' 'Assault rifle'. 'Covent Garden.'

As Lestrade hangs up, "I made you coffee, so I'm entitled to a lift. Barter and trade, that's still how the world works, isn't it?"

He's not happy about it, but he doesn't try to refuse. It's an unmarked car on the kerb at the door. We both get in, and as I begin to wonder why he's not driving yet.

"Sherlock, you're not actually under arrest. You don't have to sit in the back."

I get out, back in again at the front passenger door. "Sorry. Force of habit." He's still staring. "Covent Garden?"

"Right. Yeah. Of course."


	18. Step One:Square One

_Sherlock_

Lestrade lets me out around the corner. Wouldn't do to show up with me in the front seat. But by the time he gets there, through the panicked exodus traffic, I'm already on the pavement at the bottom of the steps. And there are friends of Mycroft's here in the crowd, if I might be permitted to euphemise. Two or three of them, in fact.

By lingering close to Lestrade, I learn that the Met had a man on the inside too. All these mindless bureaucrats being forced through Verdi; I wish I'd been there to watch them. There'd been a tip, apparently, anonymous, that the Stendhal thief would be in attendance.

Danielle Mies.

And I did, after all, start this night in the attempted pursuit of Danielle Mies.

Right. Getting out of the comedown, now, coming perilously close to a full blown crash and all out of that nice low hospital stuff, so better make this quick. For one, she didn't use the front exit. Smart girl, managed to evade them all so far, so doubtless she picked all the threats out of the stalls and circle before the overture was overturned. Shot was fired during the interval, so all these people here were in the lobby, outside smoking, having a drink in the bar, but not Mies, Mies was still in the theatre itself.

They haven't sourced the shot yet. The acoustics made it difficult to triangulate. They're looking for a shell casing, which with a professional they won't find, or, which is more likely, a bullet stuck somewhere. But that's going to take them a while.

Me, I've got a better idea.

Mies left via the stage door, round the corner on Floral Street. Floral Street is cordoned off, but there are no police on it. Which is unfortunate for them, in terms of unravelling this, but good news for me in terms of getting there first.

I get as far as the door before Lestrade catches up with me. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Investigating. Care to join me?"

"Last time you investigated anything you ended up unconscious on a public building, remember?"

"That wasn't the last time. I've done things since then." None of the passing angels of the law have noticed that the stage door isn't fully closed, but is swinging in its frame. Someone pulled it too hard; the latch has loosened out of the wood and it won't close tight.

"Oh, yeah, that's right, I forgot about the morgue."

"And Darcy, don't forget Darcy."

"Who?"

"Aha, wouldn't you like to know? Sergeant, would you like to see what a real, genuine, untampered-with bullet hole looks like?"

He follows the line of my finger as I point. It is _directly_, perfectly square, in the middle of the wall at the end of the hallway. The bullet is still in it. It was fired from the window which corresponds to it across the street outside. The elevation is low, so the person it was fired at was standing outside, down off the step. They made it that far before the marksman got his shot off.

"My God, I have to get over there," Lestrade says, and starts to make in that direction. I get him by the back of the coat and have him follow me instead.

"No. Wrong. Shooter's a professional, he's long gone."

"MI5, do you think?"

"Hm? Sorry, I could have sworn I said, 'professional'…"

There's a trail. Two people, one barefoot, running. A lady and a gentleman, I think. His shoes gave him trouble on some of the tiled corners, but they made good time.

Follow the trail back and you find the second bullet. The one the police are looking for, in the back of a box door.

A box with two chairs, and a pair of high-heeled shoes, red suede, expensive, finely crafted, left behind.

Lestrade spots some of his kin down below and shouts to them that he's found the bullet. I pull back into the shadows and think how bloody convenient it is for _him_ to have found the bullet. "The shooter sat in the gods," I tell him. "At the back. It would never be booked on a weeknight. He could have set up and taken aim in peace, waited for her to get up at the interval. She saw him and escaped, used the door as a shield. There was someone else at Floral Street, ready for that exit. Fair guess they had all of them covered."

I tell all of this quickly, because I have to go before the rest of them shift their flabby backsides up here. Already there are torchlights sweeping up the stairs like a dozen angry ushers coming to throw me out.

"You're good at this," Lestrade says. Sounding, I'm hurt and offended to say, rather shocked.

"I know that."

"Ever consider it as a career?" And take all the fun out of it? Some other spring, Lestrade. He takes a card from his pocket and hands it to me. "You can get back to me with the names."

I take it. Never had a card before. Except from psychiatrists, social workers. One particularly clueless tutor at Cambridge who tried to recruit me, apparently unaware of the fact that I'd already turned Mycroft down a hundred times. Never from anybody who seemed to actually want any help from me.

I take it, and I leave.

Like all police, in my experience at least, Lestrade has missed all the truly important facts. Like the fact that Danielle Mies should never have been there. She should be out of the country by now, and the only reason she can't do that is because so many people are watching for her. So why go out in public, and somewhere where she knows she's going to stand out? The box for two as well, and the clad-footed man. _Not_ Jon Darcy, either, but a third player. His feet are smaller than Darcy's and so far that's all I know about him. I'll come back when the police clear out and enquire about the box.

Oh, one more vital fact the police are delightfully oblivious to -

There's a deeply emotionally affected woman with no shoes somewhere in the area.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Well… I'm not _bored_ anymore. That's a plus.

Unfortunately, that's where the pluses end, and on the far side of the pluses is a large part of my brain, a _majority_ part of my brain, which keeps screaming profanity long and loud and would very much like to know what the ever-loving fuck just happened.

Oh, and I can't go home. There's a small part of me tasked with raging over that fact. I got followed home by some insane gun-toting Yank-pack thinking they're the fucking A-Team because I carried a load of stupid bloody drawings from Danielle Mies to some other fucker, and now they know where I live.

And both the places where Danielle lives, and I'm sorry for her on that count, but that's not my major concern right now.

I can't go bloody home.

And what the fuck just happened?

I want Danielle back. I want her here, so I can shake her repeatedly until she explains it to me again, more clearly and without screaming this time. She very clearly hated me at the stage door, and I'd like to assure her that whatever she thinks I've done, it was completely accidental, and then she'll explain it to me. And then I'll kill her, with a brick, but that's later.

'Here', by the way, is the Kingsbury. Nice little place, bit boutique, very discreet. Used it before and they know me and it was walking distance. It's great, actually, I like it here. However, it's not my flat.

Which brings me back to my initial point, whereby _I can't fucking go home_.

And there's no point in saying, 'Well, at least they're not after _me_ anyway.' Because they think I _know_ her. She's been staying with me for a couple of days and I just took her out for the evening, if you're an outside observer. Nice little pre-flit fling we've got going on. They think I'm _acquainted_ with the object of their decidedly leaden affections, and if they can't find her for themselves, I'm in massive fucking trouble.

Which is just one more reason to want her here, if I'm honest.

I try, because I'm desperate and you have to bloody try these useless fucking things, her mobile. Stole the number while she was unconscious. Just in case. She might have escaped or I might have needed a thief someday in circumstances that wouldn't involve actually ever meeting her ever again.

Naturally she doesn't answer.

So I take the bomb remote from my pocket. Press the button and let her beep for a minute or two. Then I call her back.

She answers, "Do it. Fucking do it. You're not even here to watch it, fucking _do_ it, you spineless fucking bastard, I _dare_ you, fucking do it. Barefoot woman with mascara she could drink by now with one arm, they won't be able to miss me then, fucking _do it_."

"I just wanted you to answer your phone, darling."

"You can't go home, Mr Moriarty." Yeah, rub it in, why don't you? "Do you have friends? Oh, please, not friends, what am I saying… Do you have somewhere you can go? Anywhere?"

"…What are you implying about me?"

"Mostly that they will torture you before they kill you and you will have nothing to tell them. Is that clear enough?"

"You said I have no friends."

"Problem?"

Well, yes, a little bit. But this isn't the time. I'm going to be the bigger man and move on from that. She's under a great deal of stress; she didn't mean that.

"Meet me," I tell her. "I have people who can deal with this sort of thing. Come back and I can help you, I can sort it." I hear her laughing before she hangs up. And despite the fact that I know I should leave her arm beeping a while and try again, I shut the bomb down again.

I meant that too.

That's the thing about being a really good liar. The truth starts to sound less convincing, somehow.

I just want to know what her plan is, that's all. She does this sort of thing far more than me. I haven't been anybody's actual direct target in _years_. I just wanted to see if she has any ideas I can steal. That's all it is.

I'll try Danielle again in a bit. For now, best just bunk down and get to work. I call somebody I know is going to pick up, because the fucker's not going to dare ignore me considering the events of the last few days.

Shakily, terrified, "H-hello?"

"Hugo! My old mucker, you stinking big fecking eejit of a trampy-looking cunt, how the fuck are you?"

"I'm… I'm al-"

"Good, good, glad to hear it. Just calling to check, Hugo, old memory's not what it used to be but… _how_ many fingers have I let you keep up til now?"

"…Eight, Jim."

"Right, so that's not counting the one you've got on loan, then."

"On… On loan?"

"Why, _yes_, Hugo. The one you signed over with reckless, wild abandon when you told Danielle Mies where to find me, and then tried to pretend to me that you were all concerned about my welfare when you realized you were in the wrong, the two of you. That one. That would take us down to seven, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, please, Christ-" Oh, Mr Jim, don't hurt me, I never meant to do it I only told her 'cause she was going to kick the puppy if I didn't, so on, so forth, snivel-snivel, whinge, whine, retch, bless yer 'eart, kind sir, only not to be hurting old Hugo… You get the picture, so do I.

"Hugo, how would you like the opportunity to buy that finger back from me? Consider the finger in hock. You'd be paying back your pawnbroker."

There's more pandering and stammering. I'll spare you the details. In short, Hugo would relish such an opportunity, so magnanimously given by yours truly.

"You have two tasks, Hugo, you useless shite, and should either of them be butchered, mangled, incomplete, cack-handed, ill-managed, anything of the sort, not only will I have both your thumbs, but I will make you wear them as earrings while they rot, and leave the bones to hang in memoriam.

"Firstly, you are to have someone, _not you_, locate Danielle. She is not to be hurt or mismanaged in any way. The slightest bruise will count as forfeit. She is to be brought to me in mint fucking condition, is that understood?"

Yes, Mr Jim, just let me jump over myself so I can tug my forelock that little bit lower…

"Secondly, someone, _not you_, is to visit my flat. Without laying so much as a finger on anything else, they are to take the laptop computer from under the coffee table and deliver it to me at the Kingsbury. And Hugo, I don't suppose I need to go into much detail on what will befall you should anybody else find out where I am."

"No, Jim, not from me, not from any of mine, oh, no, never."

"Oh! Third thing! This is worth your nose, say, for the sake of argument. Someone is to go to Mies' apartment, her real one, not the empty one. Until such times as they can be reunited, I'll be taking care of the cat. He is to be brought to me along with all the necessaries. They can touch whatever they want at Danielle's place, if they can _bear_ it…"


	19. Picture:Sound

_Jim_

Computer arrives first, just before midnight. Hugo's man leaves it at the desk, thank God. Don't want any of his lot getting up here. I'm just starting to feel safe again, clean again. Last thing I need is one of his low-down crowd filthying up my new space. It arrives in a plastic bag, fetched up by one of the bellboys. Who is, rather oddly, smirking, and making me want to punch him for reasons as yet undisclosed.

With the laptop on one hand I start pulling the bag off, then throw it away onto the bed, far, far from me, oh, God, Christ, there's no fucking escape is there?

_Guess where I hid my underwear_? she said.

Stretched round my fucking laptop, I've just discovered. _Jesus_. She did say she wasn't joking, I suppose.

Strange to relate, but while I'm washing my hands I start laughing. The words 'fucking bitch' are the same as ever, but they feel different now. Like, warm. I feel like, the way I mean them, she wouldn't be insulted or threatened. Like she would laugh too, if she was here.

Which reminds me; must enjoy rushing Hugo while I can.

This latest little problem is solvable. With the end of my tie clip I can edge the elastic back until it snaps away, and then my computer slides free. I spend a couple of minutes giving it a quick wipe down, thinking about the next move.

Thinking about what Danielle said, eventually. After Caravaggio and Satie and Verdi. I'll be honest with you, Stendhal syndrome is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of. I mean, none of it's fecking real, there's nothing to it. It's all just fiction, arrangements of notes or colours on a page. None of it has any intrinsic meaning or reality. But what it _does_ to her… I've seen that with my own eyes. That's real. I was only a day, but she suffered.

What I'm getting at is it took imminent death to make her give up anything at all.

What was it she said to me? Gilè. _The Lady And The Tiger_. If you know how to look at the painting it'll tell you everything you need to know. All a bit sexy, all a bit mysterious. This is proper old school enigmatic work. You never get this. This could be an absolute blast. I'd pass a night this way any day of the week.

I try and forget how scared Danielle looked so I can get on with it.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Couldn't find her.

She'd had a bit of a head-start, can't go beating myself up about it. I found something else, though.

Found a Hugo's. Ran right into the door, practically.

You don't argue with that sort of serendipity. And like I say, the little hospital stash was all gone and there's no point in getting stranded, alone and withdrawn, in the middle of London. Useless to anybody in that state.

This is the opposite of selfish. If I had, hypothetically, managed to locate Danielle Mies, but had subsequently fallen into the dark pit of some lingering sickness and lost her, not only would she be gone but she'd know my face, know I was part of it. The most selfish thing I could have possibly done was _not_ medicate. It took that white-marked door for me to realize that, but I see it now and it makes perfect sense to me. This was the only viable course of action.

And it feels so very, _very_ nice.

The only minor complication is that I've lost my usual back corner position. I've taken up residence in the bath, but I can still hear her, tone-deaf, in the quiet back room. Where does she get off taking up all the quiet back rooms whenever I need one?

_Ruby_.

Best not go in there. I'm not really in a position to be comfortably thrown out just yet. And once you pull the shower curtain there are definitely worse places to be than a small, not-entirely-clean while bath. For instance, now that the tiles are done, there isn't even anything to count, and my mind can relax for once. There's nothing to do, the sweet, easy high is kicking in, and who's to say I don't deserve that? It's been a strange twenty-four hours, I think you'll agree. What would you be doing? Takeaway? Stiff drink? Lazy evening in front of the telly? Early night?

Long bath?

No, I'll wager if one of you regular everyday lot out there had had a gun stuck between your teeth by a man ranting about tigers before attempting to chase a distraught lady across the metropolis in the wake of a very public shooting…

…I'm sorry, I've lost my train of thought. It was going to be insulting. Go ahead and be insulted, that was the intention. I got distracted.

There's a story about that, isn't there? About a lady and a tiger.

Not a story, per se. More a puzzle.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

She's in it.

I _told_ you she looked like a painting. Not just _a_ painting, _this_ painting. She's in it. It's supposedly the last thing Gilè painted before he died. Daughter of a close friend modelled for the main figure. Danielle Mies: critic, thief, muse. Where would the art world be without Danielle, we're forced to wonder…

The notes say the painting is something to do with a children's story.

All I see is a painting of a man being torn apart by a tiger while some barbarian princess looks on.

'Barbarian princess.' That's good; that suits her. I should remember that. I should tell her that.

I beep her for a minute and my phone rings.

"You're going to make me believe this bomb's not actually a threat."

"Called, didn't you?"

"Fair cop. What do you want?"

"You're a barbarian princess."

"You've seen my little claim to fame, then…"

"You look fucking evil…"

"You doubted me?"

"Fair cop. Tell me what I'm looking at here."

A pause, silence. She's thinking about it. And all the while, I'm having to listen. She's still out on the street somewhere. Trains. I can hear a train going past and make a note of the time of it. That's a fallacy, though. That only helps if the trains are running on time.

"No," she says. In the background, the sound of her feet stops. And I can hear babble, people. Standing somewhere public, right out there, somewhere that's busy even this late at night. Did I ever say I respected her when she was brave? I shouldn't have said that. That's a rank, unseemly lie and unbecoming of a man of my status and education. I fucking hate the bitch when she's brave. "No," she says again. "Take the arm. Make me believe and yeah, fuck it, I'll tell you everything while I bleed out. But I don't think you'll do it and I told you before, you don't want to be in on this."

"They've already put me out of my home, love; I'm pretty much in this."

Danielle starts walking again. Something about her voice turns hushed, confidential. "Listen to me, I'm starting to get the distinct impression that you actually care about m… About this. Am I right?"

"…Maybe. Yeah."

"Well, I don't know why, but I wish you wouldn't."

Note to self: torture gets you farther than caring. The plan is the same. Get one of Hugo's to bring her in, get the rest of the details whatever way works. Terrible waste, to have a whole Caravaggio stolen and only use it once.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I've just remembered I don't like that story. It doesn't have an ending. It has an impossible question. In the story the princess takes a lover far below her station. The king puts him in an arena with two doors. Behind one is a beautiful lady, who the princess hates. If the lover choses that door then he's free to go, but he has to marry said lady. If he chooses the _other_ door, he'll be attacked and eaten by a ravenous tiger.

Which is completely ridiculous. It's not even a puzzle. Without any knowledge of the princess' psychology there is no logical way to deduce an answer.

It's a terrible story, it's a worse puzzle, and the prose is artistically worthless. The whole aim of the piece is to be clever and this is the one target it misses most completely.

So no, thank you, we won't be thinking about ladies and tigers anymore. It's only annoying me, and this is the only time in my life I can be not annoyed.

Everything is warm and a little bit pink at the edges. I'm still in touch with the world, still know everything thing that I know. I understand perfectly. But it's not a threat anymore. It's a good thing now, an easy thing. A warm thing, a symbiosis, me and everything. It's a lie and it's temporary but it's beautiful.

I can touch everything.

Ruby, by the way, is still in the next room. She's on the phone and I can hear her perfectly. Tiled walls; I'm inside an amplifier.

"Nah, nah, I'm not doink anythink… Go where? Ah, yoor fakkin kiddink me!" Apparently they're not kidding her, though, because then she sighs and continues, "Yeah, yeah, I spose so. You got an address, then?"

Then scraping. Scratching the address on the wall.

Then, finally, this last thing. "Faak off. Why can't Dani pick up her own bloody cat?"

Dani, in the feminine. Conclusion: Danielle. Moving the pets out via proxy. Conclusion: under surveillance, unable to go home. In danger.

Fits.

Ruby leaves. I peel myself out of the bath and in five minutes time I'm following her.

_Told_ you'd I'd find Danielle Mies tonight.


	20. Ruby:Steele

_Sherlock_

I'm late getting to Camden, far behind Ruby. I must look a lot worse than her because she _walked_ into a cab and I had terrible trouble. Note to self: learn some quick effective cover for that, before it becomes a major handicap.

Despite what must be outward appearances, I'm in a good and perfectly functional place. Just the right part of my mind to continue the investigation. I told you stopping at Hugo's was the best idea. Look at me; here I am, exactly where I need to be in every possible way.

Where I need to be is an attractive building, old brick, warehouse converted to lofts. Later than Victorian, too square, too unornamented. This is right. This is the most sense anything has made in a couple of days; a plain place, perfect for a woman who can't bear artistry to hide away. The flat itself will be personal, cosy, safe. Now all I have to do is find out which one it is.

But, again, one more time, the answer walks up to me. Or rather past me, rather forcefully. The answer is an American man with military training. I've been through all this before; you see it in the walk, in the haircut, in the attitude. This one is different. No GI Joe, this. This one reminds me more of Jon Darcy, in fact; advanced manoeuvres, seen the worst kind of action. It leaves its mark, and not just the scar down the man's face.

He's actually rather cute with an armful of feline. Except that the cat doesn't want to go, biting and scratching. He hardly seems to feel it. Charges past me so hard and so close that the Tesco bag full of Whiskas swinging from his arm gets me in the hip.

Then, two floors up, now that he's far enough away for her to be brave, Ruby bawling, "Faaking Kingsbury, mate, yeah? Enjoy yourself, then!" Then, "Get yoor 'ands off me, you cunt!"

The American has friends. They're still up there.

And, technically, I'm developing a bruise, so they've had the first strike, really.

I take the first flight of stairs at a run and creep the second. The American, it seems, has only one friend. Frankly I'm surprised he's got that.

Still, they're not exactly a greetings card. This other one has Ruby pressed against the frame of an open door, holding her by the upper arms, hissing in her ear.

Ruby doesn't seem to have the same volume control. From her response I can gather what he's talking about, "In your lonely faakin dreams, you fucking wet limp _dick_!" He doesn't like that. He gets nasty with her after that, stands a step closer, trying to back her through the door, and when she won't do that he tries to guide her hand downward, trying to prove at least part of her last statement wrong. Ruby opens her mouth to scream and he fills the space with her own wrist. Now they're fully tangled. Now he really couldn't get any closer and can't see anything but her.

Now I step up, barrel both fists together and bring them down on the back of his neck. Pressurizing the top of the spinal column, shocking the nervous system straight up and down the body. Sensory overload, followed by shutdown. Unconscious. He goes down. Probably not the way he was imagining.

Quite a nice feeling, actually, standing there. Him all crumpled up. He's much bigger than me, you know, and he's had a lot more training. Rather gratifying, really…

"Faakkin hell, it's AC/DC."

Oh, yes. Ruby's still here.

"The Kingsbury, you said. Mies is at the Kingsbury. Which one, there are three."

"Nah, nah, it's not her. It's another fella, he's looking for her. I fink the cat's a hostage, actually."

Three questions. The first is to ask where Mies in fact _is_. That's quite important. The second is who this 'other fella' is, but I can make a guess at that and the third, the third isn't important but it _is_ the most perplexing of the three and it's the one that could prove a major irritation so I ask her, "Sorry, a hostage?"

"Too right. Loves that faakking cat, by all accounts."

It never ceases to amaze me, the things people will place their affections in.

"And this other fella, the Americans know they're going to him?"

"…Well, _I_ never said nuffink."

"Why would you lie? If they catch up with you-"

"-And if I don't lie, _he'll_ catch up with me. Broad as it is long, really."

"Who, Ruby? Who'll catch up with you? Who's taking a _cat_ hostage?"

Ruby declares an utter disinterest in helping me any further or telling me any more than she has already disclosed.

I've cleaned that up a bit, given that I am a gentleman and Ruby, certainly, is not a lady.

She takes off, too quickly for me to be bothered following. I _could_, but it won't get me anywhere. I need Mies. Darcy won't have moved because he's still safe. The scary man at the Kingsbury has a cat, not an art thief.

And I am standing at the open door of the art thief's flat.

You'd have to be a police officer to follow Ruby, rather than stay.

I do one thing the police officer would do and gather the evidence. On the ground where Ruby was standing, an iPod, with that stupid cat you see everywhere done out in sparkling stickers on the back. It's been worked out of her back pocket when he thrust her against the post. When I go to speak to her again about that other gentleman, she won't turn me away. Ruby likes music, remember?

Initial impressions: Mies smokes. She doesn't smoke _this_ packet anymore, because it's now mine. I light one up as I go about it. This is her only personal place. She travels for work, she hides in empty places, but this is her nest. She always returns here. Smell of smoke, the cat, and jasmine perfume. She cares about herself, the impression she makes. Needless to say, she likes beautiful things. In controlled conditions, in her own home, she can have gallery postcards tucked around the mirror, an silver-backed art deco brush on the dresser. A self-contained life, a woman with nobody except herself.

Good news for me; with no real friends, she has nowhere reliable to hide. Damaged and alone and no shoes._ Wonderful_ news for me.

Been here recently too. Well, of course; she had to get ready for the opera. That's the tang of aftershave here by the door – she already had her companion.

A different tang deeper in the flat. Metallic.

Dried blood flaked off, washed out, around the bathroom sink.

Ah. The scary man with the cat hostage wasn't her companion at all, was he? He was her torture-master. Take her to _Otello_ and tip off the Met.

_Elegant_. Really. Whoever he is, my compliments to him. I don't know what he wants from her, I'll presume it's the same thing everybody else wants, but it's a hell of a plan. If they hadn't been shot at, I bet it would have worked. Nonetheless, this is all conjecture, a consideration for another time. Right now, there has to be something, somewhere in this flat, some way to trace her.

Also, there must be something to eat.

Green apples in the vegetable crisper. Yes please. Couple of Kit Kats for later. Also, why does every fridge I go to have a block of cheese exactly four days into its blue mould stages? For a terrible second, it's as though the cheese is trying to tell me something.

Yes, to close the fridge, because I've clearly breathed in quite enough in the way of spores and fungus.

To close the fridge.

To find on the front of it a flyer for a small gallery in Notting Hill, with a note scrawled on it, 'SEE THIS FIRST'. It's an exhibition, a series of works by a rather talented artist who is routinely ignored due to his incorrigible desire to express actual artistic talent. Like with paint and canvas and all those dreadfully old fashioned things. An extended work, a series of pieces, entitled _The Passion Of Joan Of Arc_.

I'm not quite sure why this sends me into a fit of hysterical laughter.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

So here's where we stand:

I am plus a cat. I'm happy with that.

I am plus an American gentleman. I'm not happy with that.

And when I'm finished with that lanky, toothless twat Hugo, there will be so little left of him they won't legally be allowed to call him Hugo anymore. I need to deal with a better class of criminal. That's another thing to ask Danielle when I've got her parked in front of the collected works of David Lean.

I suppose the most interesting part of all that is the American. He arrived with Treadstone about five minutes ago and now he won't go away. I am in possession of the poor, fought-over furry one, but I'm starting to feel decidedly as though this gent thinks he's in possession of me.

"I take it you're after Miss Mies?" I say. Just to get the ball rolling, because he seems content to sit there and just twitch his scar at me.

"Mies," he admits, "Or Darcy."

"Who?"

He smiles, "Just Mies, then."

"No, really, tell me. I know you don't know who I am, but I can find people."

"Pull the other one. You're a courier."

"Only when I'm bored as fuck." Whether he believes that or not remains to be seen, but it shuts him up long enough for me to go on. "Mies is running from me same as she's running from you. She… _attacked_ me. The only reason I'm not currently taking righteous bloody vengeance is because you or one of your mates fired at us and she got away. But I've got a better chance of finding her than you do."

"And why's that, Mr Moriarty?"

…They got my name from the flat. There's no reason to be unsettled. That's what he's _trying_ to do. I'm not unsettled; that's one of _my_ tricks.

"Because this is my city, and in spite of everything? That fucking cunt quite likes me." Something about saying that out loud makes me realize it's true. And my American friend makes the elementary mistake of believing it to be a good thing. He thinks I'm being a prick, using whatever it is Danielle might think of me. He recognizes one of his own, and begins to trust me.

"You think you can get her back."

"I don't think."

"That's real sweet of you, doing that for free." My turn to laugh, I think. "Well, I had to try."

Time to discuss terms.

You have to be careful when you're discussing terms. It has to be something he can provide, but no more than Danielle is worth. So better keep it simple then. Terms are generally non-negotiable after the initial agreement, so it has to be right. Make it count. "I can get Mies. And I can keep her, if nobody's firing rifles. I will acquire and hold onto the aforementioned vicious bitch, until such times as certain things are provided to me."

"Straight exchange, sir. I like your style."

"You're not the only party after Miss Mies. British Government are in the race too. I want to know why they want her, and the full story on why you want her. I don't care who hired you, what kind of secrecy agreement you've got, that's the deal. Take it or leave it. And you won't get Mies without me, so I'd suggest taking it."

He thinks about it. Well, no, he _pretends _to think about it. He hasn't got a choice and he knows it; I can work for him or against him.

Then he gets up, shoots his cuffs (these are all my tricks, I can't believe he thinks that'll work). He tells me I'm safe at home and he'll be in touch, that when he can provide I'd better be able to do the same.

Then, thank fuck, he leaves.

Just me and Treadstone now, and no need to stay here. Go home, sort the flat out. But I owe it to Danielle to let her know what's happening first. Could make her little bomb go tick again, that's been doing the trick for me. But she doesn't like me when I do that.

A text, then. Quick little text, nice and neutral, non-threatening little text.

_ Just met the yank. You need me to help you. Come back, call, do something. Not safe. -JM_

* * *

><p><em>AN - _The real world called; apparently I'm needed for a couple of days. Snooore. Anyway, I'm going to be away from you lovely people for a couple of days, hence the double post. Hope you'll stick with me.

By the way, since I'll have a bit of a hiatus, I'd love to know what you're thinking about the tale so far and where the tale should go from here. I'm totally open to any ideas and concrit, by review or PM or pigeon or wire, and I love hearing from you good, good people.

Lots of love,

Sal.


	21. Finders:Keepers

_Jim_

Since my American friend has so graciously allowed it, I head back home. The cabbie's a bit funny about taking the cat. I tell him there's nothing to worry about and he's still a bit funny about it. So he's just called me a liar and I point at the picture of his kids on the dash and I ask if they have any pets and he takes me and my cat without a further word.

Danielle's cat. Not my cat. I didn't mean to say that.

The flat echoes when I let myself in. It's only been a night, but it's the same feeling you get when a place is new, or when you've been on holiday. Feels like it's not mine anymore. But the latch is intact, so the Americans must have known there was nothing for them here. They haven't been here.

Lucky them.

The whole place still feels like that _fecking_ woman. Her hair is still on the kitchen floor, everything still stinks of her perfume, a little stale now. I set Treadstone down. Now, if you'd expect him to sniff out anything it would be the room where she spent the night unconscious. That would be already. Treadstone can hang out with the Caravaggio; I'm not going back in there if I can help it. But he doesn't. He makes directly across the living room, down the hall, me following out of interest more than anything else. Stops in the dining room where I really need to get the blood cleaned off the floor and sniffs at that. _Looks_ at me like he knows what I did to her.

Then, and I swear to you this is no word of a fucking lie, that cat _runs _directly to my bedroom and into my bed. All fur and claws and spit.

I'm not saying I _miss_ Danielle Mies?

I'm just saying it's like she's _here_.

I leave him food and close the door on him, spend a couple of hours making my living spaces livable again. Trying to get rid of her. But the blood is between the floorboards and the perfume is everywhere and the coconut smell of her hair and the muddy, animal smell of _her_, none of that's going away until it's good and ready.

The only way to work is to set up next to an open window. Even then, the weather has decided to be an inconvenient bastard and go all fine and still today. No breezes to take her way, sun pounding through the windows to warm her through and make her stink like she's here all over again. She sticks to me even now, in my skin. In the back of my hand from last night and I can work over my knuckles as hard as I please, that won't move, and I try to type, but I keep rubbing the sides of my face against my shoulders. In the end, the only solution is another shower. This is number three, by the way. I've been cleaning her up so long, periodically it just _gets_ to you, all that grime, all that stench, all those little bits of her all over the place.

Until she arrived, since I moved in nobody had ever set foot in this flat but me.

Now I keep _finding_ her sticky, naked footprints, glowing in the tiles or on the wood.

Finally, it transpires that staying cold and slightly damp wards her off. She doesn't stick. Wet hair works the same for her as it does for onion fumes. I get little droplets on the keyboard, but I can get some work done.

For instance, Danielle said Moran. The American said Darcy. So by running the two names together I get some interesting results. It takes another hour or more to filter them out of the massive heaps of shite and facebook pages and alumni lists and staff registers, but I get them, eventually.

The American said he'd get back to me with this sort of information, but I want to know he's telling the truth when he gets here. Hugo's got until midday to call me back about Danielle, so this is how I'm spending my morning.

Moran-Darcy.

Elizabeth Moran married Michael Darcy in 1972. Summer wedding, lovely photographs. English country garden, tea roses, mile-long train, the works.

The only thing that stops this being shovelled upon the mountain of crap is the fact that Elizabeth Moran and Michael Darcy are both known names. He was an MP for a while, made a lot of enemies, said a lot of stupid things, deeply beloved by the public. Died of bowel cancer a couple of years ago. Lizzie is less well-known and, concurrently, much more interesting.

Lizzie Moran was a spy. That's the connection that made me give this the time of day. Elizabeth Moran was found dead in her home, very brutal, very professional. Husband was distraught. Son was traumatized. I was only a kid at the time, but I remember the news (Ireland, late eighties, and a British spy was dead. The news became our fucking _Blue Peter_). I think it was the kid that found her.

Yeah, it was. I remember wondering what it would be like to go looking for Ma someday (an unlikely event in itself) and find her dead. Couldn't understand why the papers kept saying he was 'inconsolable' or 'shattered'. That boy had decisions to make, as far as I could see; he had to make an educated choice of which auntie would be the best guardian for him i.e. the most lax, forgiving and generous of purse. Then I decided it was because his father was still about and that made more sense and…

Where was I? Yes, Elizabeth Moran was dead and it was a great tragedy but fuck it, we'll all move on. Murder of the Week.

Until it came out who she worked for. They never did find out who leaked that, and nobody ever did come right out and confirm it, but everybody knew it had to be true. Because nobody denied it either.

Is that it? Is that the connection?

Looking at the related articles, I find the son. He's gone and made a bit of a success of himself, apparently. Military man. Distinguished himself. Could have been a general, someday, but turned his nose up at the officer's ladder and sidestepped into the SAS. Jonathan Sebastian Darcy is a decorated hero.

He's also been declared M.I.A.

He's a definite option. I print him out and everything. But I could still have the wrong Darcy-Moran. I'm about to go back to it when I realize I'm not alone anymore.

Treadstone's back in the room. The noise of the printer, maybe, has drawn him, because he's standing on top of it, watching the pages that come out. Pages of Elizabeth and Michael, pages of text, dates, details, watching it all back and forth with mild, cool interest.

The picture of Jonathan Darcy spools out and Treadstone mewls, jumps down into the tray, lands on the picture.

I lift him off and his eyes stay on it.

Which saves me a bit of time and work, anyway.

I flatten out Jonny's claw-marked face and pin him to the wall.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

When one's life is essentially a succession of alright-days and bad-days, one must necessarily question the good ones. It's only healthy. The world gives us no reason to believe that it is ever on our side and, like a regularly beaten child, we must therefore assume that any kindness is just the expectation of reward.

That's why I hover a while outside the little gallery on Bleiheim Crescent, watching from the window.

I only came to ask about her. To enquire whether they'd had any dizzy, fainting women in. Any sobbers. Any nasty little spills like the National had.

The space inside is sparse and white. Four walls and a bench down the middle.

Sitting cross-legged on the bench, silently crying and drawing looks from the staff, is a young lady. Looking at a photographically rendered image of a woman in medieval sackcloth stood in a modern courtroom with her feet on fire, and at nothing else but this. She's dressed as though she's on her way to somewhere very much classier, or as if she's just come from it. Hair a little windswept, like she's done some running. The right body type, very lithe, very gymnastic. I shinned that drainpipe at the National and I can tell you, she'd have to be.

It's the dirty, torn up soles of her stockings that really do it, though.

Life gives us no reason, none, to believe in fate. Never. _Except_ for the last fifteen hours.

Someone else's terrible old aunt, in the back of my mind, mutters distastefully about gift-horses and mouths. Get in there, basically. Before it all turns out to be a mirage or, more likely, I'm still in the bath at Hugo's and I'm about to be picked up again and Mycroft won't be willing to leave me alone anymore.

I push in, and the buzzer over the door goes. The staff look up, but not so much as a twitch from Miss Mies.

I tell a lie; if you watch closely, you can see her heart beating out of her chest. Her pulse is visible in her jugular.

A quick glance to the girl leaning on the counter top at the far end. Indicating the lady, and I tap my watch.

"Oh, you can talk," she says. "She can't hear you. This is third time. She came in when we opened."

"And you just let her sit there?"

"Tell you what, _you_ try and move her."

And now I'm _invited_. This is brilliant.

So I settle myself on the bench next to Miss Mies. Get a good look at her. She's gone. Elaborately and effectively dead within the cradle of her own overwhelmed emotions. In some branches it's called a serotonin wild. The utter overload of the mind. But she's not fully catatonic; when I wave a hand in front of her eyes she bats it away, with an irritated, put-upon sigh. I try 'Hello', but nothing happens.

I try, "I know who you are, you know. I know what you did on Tuesday night."

She doesn't even seem to hear it. I thought that was a good bet; a decent shock, snap her out of it, but no. No, I'm not as important, her imminent arrest isn't as important as the piece on the wall entitled 'The Trial'. You'd think she'd be taking a hint from that.

Feet. Bare feet, run raw by now. I try poking the bleeding bits. The foot twitches, tucks away beneath her thigh, but that's all.

"You have very strange toes. It's like there's another knuckle. Can you use those to hang off buildings when you're robbing them?"

No, her criminal career is not the way to go.

I try standing in front of the painting. She leans around. When I lean with her, she leans in the other direction, and seems content to sway back and forth without argument. This isn't working. And the girl at the end is looking at me with this _smile_, this satisfied, told-you-so smile and it's just not working. I can't be Told So by a gallery attendant, and especially not one who started out smug.

See, while Mies is so far gone, I could call Lestrade. Or Mycroft, but, well… Best call someone I actually feel comfortable handing her over to. The simplest arrest, a pliable suspect. No chase, no fuss.

But I haven't done that yet. It's a strange feeling, hard to explain but… It wouldn't be _sporting_, would it?

That _girl_ at the far end is still smiling. Have to _do_ something. And getting defensive and sticking my hands in my pockets is not going to h-…

…Scratch that.

Getting defensive and sticking my hands in my pockets is the most sensible plan. In my coat pocket, I have Ruby's glittering iPod. The secret weapon, as it were. I sit back down next to her and pray Ruby's library reflects the taste she admitted to me. The bit that started all this. This is it, this is perfect. This will work.

It had better work, because one way or another that girl up there is going to stop smiling, and I don't intend to be done for assault today.

_Bigmouth Strikes Again_.

It's perfect. I've discovered the cure for Stendhal Syndrome. I can take the piece which is holding her so rapt, so perfectly in thrall and make a joke of it, break its spell.

Cue it up just right, and I clean off Ruby's headphones before I press them into her ears.

Press play and watch, wait for it to work.

The tinny, outside hint of Morrissey, the critical moment; _…now I know how Joan of Arc felt, as the flames rose to her Roman nose, and her Walkman started to melt_.

At first, nothing. Nothing happens. I've lost. I'll have to call Lestrade, and feel terrible for it, and the girl at the end will laugh. This is why I question good days, they're never really good days. There's no such thing as a good day; only set ups to terrible disappointments at later times. This is awful, terrible, this is-

And then the smile. Small, warm, beautiful. And the first nervous mew of a laugh, that turns into something bigger and she covers her mouth to hold it in. Now that there's a break, I take her by the face, turn her away from the painting to look at me instead. She strains, trying to turn back, "No, no, don't do that. Stay with me. Look at me. Eyes. Forget that, that's over, you're embarrassing yourself. Stay with me."

The pounding heartbeat stops rattling under her dress. Something changes in her eyes and she's here again.

Tries to brush her face dry, but frankly she's got tears gathered in her collarbone, it's not going to do it. Handing me back Ruby's headphones, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Really, I owe you."

"Are you alright?" She nods, tries to dry her face again, but it's bravery. "Cigarette?"

"Thanks, but I'm a bit fussy what I smoke, actu-" She stops, because I've brought out her packet. "That would be great."

Cigarette leads the discussion of a stiff drink, leads to the tentative discussion of something softer and more relaxing. Leads to a cab. Shouldn't lead to a cab. The only address I should give is Scotland Yard. That's not the address I give.

Mycroft still knows more than me. This, Mies, is my chance. And when a chance to know more than bloody Mycroft comes along I'm holding onto it, thank you very much.

Besides, why not? Why look a good day in the mouth?


	22. Good Day:Bad Day

_Sherlock_

Define 'good day'. Pair of tattered stockings on the radiator, wanted woman on the sofa, my slippers on her feet. Not the definition I would have given you yesterday, but certainly very true. Because it means that I am in possession of a very important piece and that piece trusts me, thinks I saved her because I'm _nice_ that way. Also she's three measures on her way to drunk, no signs of slowing, emotionally vulnerable, and I am now presenting to her a fine and freshly-rolled joint of the best.

"You're so bad," she says softly. Taking it anyway, of course. "Really. You should be reported, picking up damaged goods and trying to get them off their faces." This, spoken as she's sparking up.

"Purely medicinal." For both of us. It helps her recovery from the tyranny of Jean d'Arc and her latest chronicler, staves off my nigh-inevitable crash until I can get talking to her. She inhales, moderately, _politely_, passes it back to me as I sit down.

Breathes out, "Do you make a habit of this? The shining-armour bit."

"You had interesting feet. How'd that happen?"

"I had to leave my shoes behind. I couldn't run in them." Being coy, smiling to herself. It's nothing to do with me, not a joke for anyone but her.

"Rembrandt finally hunt you down?"

"Oh, worse men than Rembrandt."

"Who then?"

"Caravaggio. And Leonardo and Michaelangelo."

"Oh, so that's who it was…" She's dragging on the joint again, so it's just a questioning look. "Covent Garden, last night. Somebody was firing _rifles_, would you believe?"

This is it. This is the crucial reaction. There's nothing too obvious, but I wouldn't expect it of her. Maybe some shift in her expression, but that doesn't happen either. And all she says, "What was on?"

"_Otello_."

"Then yeah, I'd believe it. If I'd had a rifle I'd have fired it."

Ah, so you were there, then.

If one wanted to give oneself away entirely and have her immediately leave, knowing both my face and true intentions, that's what I would say. However, she's going to stay here and be gradually less aware of herself and tell me more and more, so I say nothing. But then, when she passes back the roll-up, her hand falls onto my knee. Which is odd and entirely unwarranted and I'd like to know why, thank you very much.

Not quick enough to ask, though.

"I never got your name," she says, with mild interest, like it doesn't really matter but would just be a nice thing to have so why does that require the contact, please? I find myself staring at her hand, just wondering. It must go on just a bit too long, because she looks away again, "Or not, whatever." Takes her hand away.

All of a sudden I want to answer the question. Can't tell her the truth so I tell her the accepted lie; half of London knows me as Jeremy Rathbone.

She responds, "That is a bastard of a name." The hand, by the way, doesn't come back. I didn't want it to, that's not why I answered the question, but I had suspected that might be a possible result. But it doesn't happen. I try to pass back the joint and she holds up her hand, "No, no, you keep that. You need that more than me. If I had a name like that I'd _live_ on the far side of sober."

"Well, what do you have?" I just want to see what she says, if she lies about it. But she doesn't; Danielle Mies, straight off. And corrects it too, that she's Dani to friends and that after this morning I most definitely count amongst those.

Honestly, people are baffling. One incident, and no indication given that it wasn't some sort of set-up. She hasn't questioned how I found her or how I knew what was wrong with her or even why I helped, and suddenly we're _friends_. I knew she trusted me when she accepted the slippers, but this is ridiculous. 'Friends'. Must admit I'm disappointed. I thought she was better than that, understood life a little better than to start in on all the emotional business. When you step back and examine the whole process, 'friendship' is really a system of exploitable potential and favour-trading, similar to the kinship ideals of primitive society. Somewhere along the way this admirable barter has been warped, mixed up with some bizarre notion of affection. It's insane.

"Friends?"

"I was burning and you saved me. Either you're a truly horrible person with something awful lined up, or yes, we're friends."

"Burning?"

"You ask too many questions to have something awful lined up." She laughs at that. Curls up into the corner of the sofa, hitching her feet up. My slippers. That's alright, she can wear those. I don't mind.

I ask her again to tell me about her condition, about burning.

_Jim_

Define 'shitty day'.

Any given twenty-four hour period featuring one Hugo Tudor. And the three days thereafter while you try to forget.

But this is the only way I can make him fully understand the scope and scale of what he's into here. On both the other occasions when Hugo and I have met in person, I have left with one of his bony, stinking digits. Much as I hate to break a streak I don't intend to do that this time. But he's going to brick it when he sees me and that's the key to all of this. I need Hugo to fucking _shit_ himself, and Danielle will be back in front of the Magadalen by sunset.

Had to break out the best suit. Thankfully it was crushed into the far end of the wardrobe, not one of the ones she rubbed up against. Going in there was bad enough without having to deal with that.

Worth it, though. Fucking hell, do I make an impression in the Armani. And it's not arrogance if it's true, and it is, it's true, one hundred percent. Have to make sure and keep this good. When they drag her to my door just after dinner time I want to make an impression.

Hugo keeps himself in one of those big white Supernova Heights type jobs near Primrose Hill. Far away from the drugs and destruction, close enough to Camden to justify his apparent inability to cover his ribcage with anything heavier than a papery layer of skin. I always said to myself that if he ever did anything decent, I'd send him a couple of good shirts, but for one it hasn't happened and for the other, it would just be a waste.

Anyway, I know he'll be home today because I told him to be out and about, coordinating the effort to regain my thief.

Yes, _mine_. Ownership. Possessive. Fucking _mine_.

And I know he'll answer the door because he knows I hate the shape of his face, so he doesn't think it'll be me.

And doesn't Hugo get a shock when he looks out, and there I am making an impression, and slamming the door back into him when he tries to close me out.

I'll spare you all reading the repeated letters, because those are annoying. But if you could just go on ahead and imagine this six-foot-seven skeleton with rotten teeth stammering, tripping over himself, "Now, Mr Moriarty-"

"Alright, Hugo?"

"-I've got my best people out there right now looking for her."

"I've brought my secaturs, Hugo."

"You don't know Dani like I know her, mate; if she wants to go to ground, the Wombles couldn't sniff her out-"

"I'm leaving with something, Hugo. Even if it _is_ only another finger."

"She'll have shacked up with somebody by now. That's what she does; she finds somebody not involved and she makes them keep her."

"Oh, and Hugo, why was it GI Joe that delivered that cat and not one of your usual pack of skagheads?"

"Yeah, our Ruby said something about that…"

"You're failing me, Hugo." I've been backing him down the hall all this time. About now, he falls into the kitchen. I slip past him, take a seat at the table. "Put the kettle on, would you?"

There is no point to this, and I had tea this morning before I came over here. I just want to watch Hugo make me tea. I will not be touching anything prepared by this shambling excuse for a human being, this artist's impression of Pete Doherty after a couple of hours on the rack and minus his tenuous scraps of talent, but I want to watch him fumble and rattle about. He keeps dropping things; it's almost as though he's already lost the opposable thumb.

Adaptable sod, is our Hugo.

If Danielle Mies is out there, or ever hearing about this, I did this for you, love. I did this because you were out on the streets alone and without shoes. I hung about in Hugo's stinking kitchen for you.

"What were you saying about Danielle?" He drops the teabags. Apparently conversation, tea-making and thumb-loss are too much all at once. "You were saying about where she hides?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, she cops off."

"…Well, by definition, a one-night-stand doesn't protect her very long."

"Ah, come on, mate. I mean, you've met her. If she made you breakfast, would you fuck her out before lunch?"

Jesus, she's hideous, isn't she? Psychologically, I mean. She _uses_ people. That's what she was telling me outside Covent Garden; she tortured me so she'd have something to do for a couple of days. Hugo's talking about sex, of course, but that's only part of it. She _involves_ people, hides behind civilians when she's in trouble. Fucking horrific, genetic anomaly. Biology should have had her miscarried, her and all her ilk. Just her and Hitler, slipping through the net. When Nature fucks up, it doesn't half.

And, _not that I'm worried about her_, or any such thing, but what kind of _pervert_ could she have picked up on the _street_, without _shoes_, with her make up dripping off her _chin_? What sort of malicious wanker would have picked her up?

I'm not worried. I just despair for the human race, that's all.


	23. Answers:Questions

_Jim_

Enjoying the cuppa I have no intention of ever actually drinking, I let Hugo sweat it out in my silence. It takes almost a full sixty seconds for the penny to drop, before he jumps up to fetch me a biscuit.

"Hugo, who's Jonathon Darcy?"

"Who?"

Nice try. Hugo knows Danielle too well not to know she's in trouble, and whatever she's in, Darcy's in there too. No. Hugo knows who Darcy is. "_...You need hands, to hold someone you care for. You need hands, to show that you're sincere_."

"Nah, honestly, honestly, Mr Moriarty, honestly, I don't know him. I know the name, I admit that, but that's all I know. You have to believe me, it's bible-truth, it's just his name."

Hugo's got this terrible thing about holding on to all his own body parts, and he knows I don't do empty threats, so yes, loath as I am to believe a word of it, I feel I must. "So where'd you hear about his name then? Tell all, Hugo, before I decide your tongue's not worth much anymore."

Hugo settles himself, takes a deep breath. I prepare, not just for the story, but for the fact that he's going to have to exhale through those stumpy brown teeth of his any second now.

"He's a mate of Dani's. That's all I know about him. I heard them on the phone a couple of times but she wouldn't talk about it. About three weeks ago she goes abroad. On a job, she says, good one, big one, bit of fun and no art involved so she could enjoy it. Five days later she sends to me for a passport in a new name to get home on, and one for this Jonathon fella too. Two of 'em sneaks back into the country and the next I hear is when she comes to me asking about the National Gallery and what I can do for her. That's it, Mr Moriarty, swear to Christ and God's my witness, I know no more than that."

"So could Darcy have been the client for the gallery job?"

"Nah. See, that was the funny thing about the other night. I asked her who the client was, since it didn't come through me. Professional interest, you know, and protecting my vested, too; Dani works for me and there was two jobs in a row I didn't put her to. She says to me, no, s'not like that, s'personal, Hugo. Something I have to do, she says."

"Where'd you send the passports to?"

"Africa. Goganye."

Tin-pot republic with no resources, the very _arsehole_ of nowhere. Even the rest of the sub-Saharan clusterfuck ignores it, along with the rest of the world, and the twenty-first century. And yet _something_ about the name is recent, three weeks recent, and that's what makes me stop.

They lost a leader, recently.

Well, I say 'lost'. That makes it sound like the temp put him in the wrong pigeonhole and nobody could be bothered taking everything out to look for him. 'Lost' implies it's there, but you just can't find it. I say 'lost', I mean he was ruthlessly and efficiently assassinated in his own home in front of one of four wives while the myriad kiddies were tucked up in bed. I'll admit, there's a bit of a difference there.

Surely that was more than three weeks ago, though...

Please tell me that was more than three weeks...

It wasn't. It was almost exactly three weeks ago now, wasn't it? See, I'm almost starting to feel sorry for Hugo; he's sitting here telling me everything he knows, actually being fairly useful for once in his life, giving me a half-decent set of answers, and I _still_ want to strip the flesh slowly from his bones, because the answers only lead to more questions. Like how Danielle Mies would have ended up in the middle of a political assassination. Or whether Darcy was the person who involved her, or another person sunk on the same boat. Or what the missing Gilè drawings have to do with any of it.

And I'm sitting there discussing with myself all these very important mysteries when Hugo clears his throat and, for reasons best known to himself, decides to provoke me.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr Moriarty-"

"I'll stop you there, Hugo; I do in fact mind."

"-You're taking an awfully keen interest in our young Dani."

Beneath the table, my foot hooks the leg of his chair and I pull it in. It crushes his ribs against the table before it plants him square and hard on his back. The chair knocks the ground and an instant later his head makes almost the same noise. I round the table and, while he's lying there winded, upend that fetid tea over his skinny bare chest. And I tell him as I leave that the woman gets dragged to my door before midnight, or the next person standing over him will be holding a pair of bolt-cutters.

All of which considered, I would think I've made my message clear.

_Sherlock_

Danielle made tea. And sandwiches. And didn't appear to recognize her own KitKats in the afterward. The drug has hit, and left her light and sleepy, sweet and very hungry. And yet, most frustratingly, her secrets remain her own.

She's lying on the rug now, looking at the bottom of the bookshelves. Actually, given her current condition, she's managing a fairly intelligent discourse on the professorial bias inherent in _The Golden Bough_.

I myself have reached a dangerous place where part of me doesn't care anymore. Wants to sit around and discuss the fascination of the feminine in the male academic mind, sort out the balance of fear and condescension in the work. But that's not why she's here and not why I've been keeping her. Have to stay focussed, stay on task. Even if she _does_ have a fascinating approach to the mythopoetic significance of the gods' favourites.

"I mean, most of the lit treats it as if they could have anything they wanted. Venus would have done anything for Adonis, that sort of thing. But it's just not true. The gods were the ones with all the expectations. Being a favourite was just like being sold-as-seen; you have to _stay_ that way or you're fucking done for. Look at Endymion getting put to sleep for all-forever. Nah. Nah, the Chinese have got it right. In China it's a pretty big curse to be noticed by the gods. If somebody really wants to call you out they say, 'May you live in interesting times.' Westerners take that up wrong, they think it's a good thing..."

"Do you live in interesting times, Dani?"

"Unfortunately, yes. You?"

"Perpetually."

"Would you change it? If I could, I mean. Would you take the quiet life?"

"Not for all the tea in China." She laughs at that, but raises her mug in toast, in agreement. She's got quite a nice laugh, I suppose, if you categorize that kind of thing. "Do you know a lot about China, then?"

"Not really. The art more than anything. Couple of old proverbs. Big wall, lots of people, communism. 'Bout at much as anybody else."

Give me some credit; it wasn't an entirely random question. I know where I'm taking this. "_Mingzhi laohu manyou zhexie shan qiu_..."

And yes, bloody good gambit, she picks it up, "_Jinru zhexie wangxinglei wo maomei_." Or, for the non-speakers amongst you, 'Knowing well that tigers roam these hills, into these tiger hills I venture.' The tattoo on Jon Darcy's arm. And Danielle Mies says softly, cautiously, "Now how did you know that?"

I lie. "I've travelled. Just something I picked up."

"Really?"  
>"Yes."<br>"Honestly?"

"Yes."

"You wouldn't try to trick me, would you?"

"Never. We're friends." This, thankfully, this is where the grass is going to save me. Suspicion requires energy to maintain and she just doesn't have it. She'd rather take the chance right now than exert herself. So Danielle decides that she believes me. Just a funny coincidence, that's all. Starts laughing again. "What? What is it? Does that mean something to you?" The laughter breaks, turns into the usual hysterical giggle. She beckons me down across the floor. "What is it?"

"I want to show you something. And I can't get up, so you have to come to me." In the end, I do. Climb down from the sofa and sit next to her. Danielle says, "I want you to look under my dress."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it's on my back. Down the left side. The thing I want to show you, I mean."

It's only right. Evidence is being _offered_, and like any good investigator I owe it to myself to confirm any suspicion before I act on it. So poor, predictable Miss Mies rolls over onto her stomach, thinking she has me exactly where she wants. Gently, I take her dress at the hem and start to ease it up. She lifts her hips and stomach to help, and hers is a tight, strong body, so it's effortless. Doesn't tremble, doesn't shake. She's paler than I would have thought, naturally; the fading tan line at the edge of her underwear gives that away. Foreign trip, recently, brief, not a lot of sunbathing but somewhere with very strong sun. Equatorial. South Pacific, perhaps, though I would assume her Asian interest is older than her colour.

As Darcy had the first part of the proverb, she has the second, dropping down from her left shoulder to her waist in fine, elegant lettering.

I don't stop, though, but push the gathered dress up onto her shoulders. Because she wants me to. Because when it gets there she bends her arms back and peels it off entirely. Lying flat out and almost naked and that's alright. I want her vulnerable. I want her to be exposed before I lean down and ask, "And how is Jon, anyway?"

Too high to properly cover up, her head whips round before she remembers to just say, "Who?"

"Jon Darcy. Or was it a different pair of tigers that robbed the National Gallery at the other end of the week?"

There's a glance between us and she knows not to lie anymore. There's something almost respectful in the way she concedes. That's as far as it goes, though. She rears up, and exposure hasn't had quite the effect I'd hoped, because she doesn't even look that threatened. She looks savage and royal, and I dread to think why it is that she seems more comfortable now than when she was dressed.

"Alright then, so you know who I am. That's me at a little bit of a disadvantage, though, isn't it? I mean, who are you? You're too good to be one of Hugo's and none of the other parties out for my head are as clueless as you. Not to mention they wouldn't hire a half-sickened junkie to do the job anyway."

"Whoever said I was a-"

"Look at yourself and tell me I'm wrong. Lie to me again. I _dare_ you."

"Danielle, I don't know what you think you're-"

"Now, _that's_ something interesting." And before I can even ask what she means, she attacks. Throws herself over me, pressing me down intot he rug. One hand, stronger than it should be, takes my arm and guides it over my head, and she rolls back my sleeve. One long white finger traces the train tracks down the vein. I try to pull away but she won't allow it. "_You're_ not ashamed of anything. Confidence is not a problem, and you know who you are and you know everything. Or you think you do. Which is all well and good but then I do this, get these boys out-" And here she folds the arm down, and I'm supposed to look at it, but I don't, I turn my head away,"-And suddenly it's the all-over altar boy. Where does all the balls-out honesty go now?"

"This from the thief who can't bear the sight of beauty."

"I don't lie about that. So tell me, Jeremy Rathbone if-in-fact-that-is-your-real-name, who the hell are you?"


	24. Dream:Nightmare

_Sherlock_

Who am I?

In need of a distraction, I stumbled upon her case by mistake, stayed in out of curiosity and through a sequence of suspiciously fortunate events following on from said-mistake, I found her. Who am I, Danielle? I am the end of your road, dear, the cobweb to catch you and hold you stuck fast. Something chose me to be the man to understand all this and trust me, I will not disappoint. Who am I? I'm your worst _bloody_ fear and you never even suspected.

Danielle begs to differ, though.

She's still holding the arm up in front of me and all the little punctures stare down, like so many eyes. No, like so many flies' eggs, waiting to burst into life and put forth plague and pestilence. She knows, though I can't say how, a lot of what I am is _that_. It goes into the little dots and pumps in and out for a bit and then it goes to the brain. A lot of what I am doesn't come from me at all. And I could, I suppose, try telling her about how dangerous it is for a mind that sees everything to get so damningly bored as I sometimes do, how sometimes I'm not sure what I'll end up doing or who will suffer, where the axe will fall. But it just feels like an excuse. With her bearing down on me, waiting for an answer, it doesn't feel like an explanation anymore.

Danielle says, without speaking, 'Not much', and I must say she puts forth a compelling argument.

So really, honestly, a new answer, from the core, from the heart. Something that's always been there but comes up fresh now and hurts to see that it's been there all this time; the crushing, painful realization that the person I am now is almost exactly the person I was at the age of twelve. It's classic, though no less killing for it. I could write you a paper on it in an hour or so. But if you trace is all back-

Danielle's free hand pulls back across her and slaps me, hard. "Don't you fucking dare be flashing-back now; I only asked you a simple fucking question. No big existential crisis required, my friend. I just want to know what the hell you've got to do with me."

So I shake it off, relent. "Would you believe me if I said 'absolutely nothing'?"

"You just spoke the right Chinese at me and used a name not very many people know."

"I've picked up bits and pieces, of _course_, but in terms of affiliations, of being on a side, I'm still up for grabs."

"Oh, really?" A look comes over her face, and I'm afraid I don't really understand it very well. Finally she lets go of my arm. Sits back, easing her weight to where I can support it; sitting across my hips. Both hands planted on my chest. Still with that powerful tilt of her head, still determined, but softer now. It's all supposed to mean something, but it's so relaxed, so natural to her, so base-state, that there's nothing really to read. I don't understand. "And just what is it that might _grab_ you, then?"

Eyes slowly closing, the delicate shift of her weight gradually back and forth and all of a sudden, I get it. I pull her hands off me by the wrists and try and push her back. She's too strong for it. I just find myself sitting up, almost against her. Saying, "Not what I meant."

Danielle rolls her eyes. "Déjà vu... Can't get a ride for _diamonds_, this week."

"I beg your pardon?"

She sighs in disgust. "Nothing, never mind. What were you saying about picking a side? I mean, where are you liable to end up?"

She's too close. I can feel her breath on my face. And I want her to move, but she knows that, so she's going nowhere. "Wherever's more interesting."

Danielle breaks out a bright, winning smile, laughs, "In that case, Mr Rathbone, you need me."

"Really?"

"Well, the other side of the argument is the manhunt for me and Jon Darcy. And you've already located both of us. How interesting could that be anymore?"

Another compelling argument.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Somewhere in the afternoon, last night catches up. There hasn't really been time to make up the bed again, but it has been torn away clean again. The mattress is bare and Treadstone is curled up in the heap of sheets which, like everything belonging to his mistress, will probably find their way to a rather large fire soon enough. You know, I would have thought she would have called about him before now. Honestly, the neglect is absolutely staggering. I should probably hold onto him for a while, y'know; it would be better for him.

One quick belt of something warm and Irish to see me off (it's after dinner somewhere in the world, give it a fecking rest), and I am very much gone.

Now, I must say, I really am one for treating sleep as a necessity. So many people these days seem to make a sport of it, or at least some kind of hobby. A gradual attempt to waste more and more of your life in the deep, comforting dark. Just look at the sums people will put out on bedclothes and mattresses and TVs that come out of the footboard. Look at the shite they put on TV in the mornings so there's nothing for even the opiate masses of Kilroy level idiots to get up for. That's what happened to Kilroy, you know; he got too big. Students were starting to make a cult hero of him. Housewives weren't going back to bed after packing the kids off anymore, they were staying up to see the DNA results. Kyle got himself cancelled for being too fecking interesting. And that David Dickinson needs to fucking watch himself, I'll tell you that for free. No, any second spent sleeping where the process is not physically required to restore and replenish the body is a second wasted.

What I'm getting at is, I don't dream. Not the really good kind, where they mean something and you remember them, like you have just after you roll over in the morning. I used to. Packed all that in, thanks very much. They were always that greeny-grey Dublin colour, and there was always a crescent moon in them I didn't like the look of. Specifically, it didn't like the look of me. Too bright, kept showing me up when I was trying to hide and...

Anyway. Stupid fucking things, no call for them. I mean, you can do all the research you want, all the philosophizing and science you fecking please, but there is no reason, they just happen, when you mind is dead for so long as it is when it's sleeping. That's all it is.

What I really mean is, I dream this afternoon, and I don't know why.

I dream the doorbell rings, which is bizarre because I don't have one. And Danielle Mies is there but she hasn't been dragged and isn't at gunpoint. She's come of her own accord with a long black briefcase like one for snooker cues. Because it's a dream, I'm not afraid she's going to pull a machine gun or sniper rifle out of it like I really should be. I sit on the sofa with Treadstone, who she doesn't even appear to recognize and she sets herself up in the armchair. The briefcase on the coffee table.

Danielle proceeds with a sales pitch, hawking walking sticks of all shapes and sizes, from the cheapest plastic collapsible to a fine Malacca with a silver top. And I inform her, of course, that I need no such thing, that my fine, stately figure is unbowed and unbent and perfectly capable.

She says, "But you can't walk."

And when I try to get up to show her, nothing happens. I stay on the sofa like a stone. Treadstone jumps down and tries to help, tugging me up by the trouser cuff, but nothing happens. I can't move. Nothing fucking happens.

Danielle selects a cane from her collection and offers it to me. Very beautiful, very elegant, just my type; ebony body with gold inlay, and an ivory handle depicting a gentleman being torn apart by a tiger with rubies for eyes. I want it very much and she doesn't make me pay, but I can only ever walk again when it's with me. In the dream, this is. Thankfully just in the dream.

I wake because my phone is ringing, and I let it wake me because it's her number. The coincidence is unsettling, but I can't ignore her.

"Hello?"

"You are so fucking dead. And I do mean it this time. I am going to make every inch of skin you possess crawl away crying into the corner, and leave you to suffer that for a while, and then I'm going to fucking kill you. In about nine different ways. I've got nine so far. With a defibrillator and a good doctor on hand I'm pretty sure I can do at least that much. I am going to destroy you, totally, to a molecular level, from the outside _right_ in. I am going to push the outside world _through_ you to watch you fear it before I tear your fucking heart out and eat it, is that understood? Is that in any way unclear, James?"

There's a sick, giggling part of me that quite enjoys all that, actually. She'll have to _come back_ in order to do all that. And she won't be selling me any fucking walking sticks this time, I tell you. I'll be ready for her this time.


	25. Attention:Care

_Jim_

"Problem, Danielle dear?"

"_You_ made me think I was in mortal danger. I've been casting about for my last lay with both hands because of you."

Ah.

That's why didn't have to beep her to get her to call. I reach for my trousers from the end of the bed and fumble the pockets for the second. When I press the button on the bomb remote, nothing happens on the far end of the line.

"Yes, love, that's right. I'm onto you. I'm with somebody now who says to me, 'Well that's all well and good, Dani, but that's not a bomb.' And then he just grabs it off and, aside from that I nearly die of heart failure, _nothing fucking happens_."

Yeah. I'm a tiny bit rumbled, I think. She was right from the off; I was never going to take the arm. Too messy. And bleeding out's not a good death, and it's not an easy one when you're in that much pain. I just didn't want that for her. Any hospital visit, if she'd made it that far, would almost inevitably have ended up with her death at the hands of one or any of her current pursuing parties anyway. Not to mention there was enough plastic on there that it probably would have taken most of the heart side of her chest.

Oh, that's something.

"The _plastic_ was real."

"Oh, of course. An unfamiliar bracelet-detonator is one thing, but I've used _that_ before. I'd have noticed _that_. Little bit of overkill going on there, don't you think? God, I've got enough to take out a decent size penthouse here..."

"You wouldn't."

"But will you sleep tonight?"

"I've already slept, darling and anyway, you wouldn't."

"I'm not like you. I don't make threats I don't intend to follow up on."

"I've got Treadstone."

She laughs at me and calls me a liar, but the tom in question is currently sitting on the bedside locker. In response to a gentle scratch under the chin, he mews for her, and the line goes dead. "Good furball," I tell him. "Sounds like she's on her way. Come on; there must be something special in the fridge for you." He lets me pick him up and carry him out. "We must make ready for the coming of the princess."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

"What's Treadstone?" Slowly, out of all the anger and stress of the phone call, she starts to smile. "What?"

"Nothing. You look so excited. Sorry to let you down, but Treadstone's my cat."

"Ah, grey crossbreed, warm-looking chap, needs his nails cut."

That was the wrong thing to say. Now I have to tell her I've already seen where she lives, the whole strange saga of how I came to find her. There's _some_ benefit, I suppose, since it proves I'm not following her for MI5, but the trust will never level out if we keep going up and down like this. It's starting to get to that time where I'm saying wrong things. I'm not really _thinking_ about the actual words, you see, and sometimes, like just now, a thought will come out that should have stayed just a thought. All the filters are starting to switch off.

For instance, while she thought the hoax device on her arm was still real, she would never have gone back near this gentleman-catnapper.

Now she's planning her search-and-rescue, to be followed by a swift and brutal retaliation attack.

One, it's not good for her need to lie low. Two, I don't know if she'll come back. I still haven't decided who to tell about her, if anybody. She had a point, about her side being much more fun. But Lestrade is expecting a call and Lestrade has been... _nice_. Is that the right word? Of course, an emotional reaction is no way to make a decision. Nonetheless, I feel almost... _beholden_? I'm sorry, this is virgin territory; the vocabulary will come with time.

And then there's Mycroft who, much as I'd like to rule him out, has to be considered. I have to put up with him, for one. All these other people will come and go by Mycroft, and how the very thought makes my teeth grind, is forever.

The point is, it's really the sort of decision that should have been made by now, and made very quickly. There are three parties, each with their pros and cons. Actually, it's two – Danielle shouldn't even count. She's the _object,_ she's what I'm _here _for. She's not a real viable option for the future of the case. I shouldn't be counting here, I don't know why I am, I don't know why I would care...

Hours ago, my mind should have set them out side-by-side and known to look at them which was weighted in my favour. However, that hasn't happened. Thanks to the joint we've bypassed hangover entirely, sliding straight out of the gentle comedown and into a whole new need. I've already counted the sun-dark freckles across Danielle's shoulders and now I'm counting nothing at all, just the tips of my fingers bouncing off the pad of my thumb with no rhythm and no sense to their order and that is truly horrible. That is pointless, and chaotic and nothing is making any sense and-

And then she takes hold of that hand. By the fingers. Holding them up and away so they can't tap. "Look, I know what it is to crave. I never did recover all the way from the Flower Duet. But please, if you have to go anywhere, don't go to Hugo?"

I shouldn't leave her here, should I? That's some part of some sort of trap, isn't it? There's something wrong with this picture, but I can't see what it is, and as far as I'm concerned she's just told me to go, so-

"Listen, you have to stay. If I go, you have to stay, you can't go running off to... whoever was on the phone while I'm-"

She's shaking her head. "It's only five. I'm not going there until after dark."

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

I know it was only at the start of this week but... How to put this...

Alright, back before I used to be tied to a chair or getting shot at or terrorizing Hugo or stealing cats, right? Before all that.

Were there more huge, empty afternoons like this one?

What did I used to _do_ with my days, is what I'm asking you. And then I remember how all this started. Four hours brain-dead, stuck hovering over the computer where, until it hit, I had been perfectly happy to be. Well, not perfectly, obviously, or it never would have happened.

A day in the life used to mean waking up, having breakfast, protecting certain interests around the world, solving any problems, setting a few fun little dominoes toppling, just to watch them fall, having a drink and going to bed again. And I'm not even kidding. There comes a time when you stand back, look at your life and find yourself thinking, _When the fuck did I turn into such a useless fucking wanker_?

Not quite useless; I won't be that hard on myself. Not useless at all, in fact. I am _insanely_ fucking powerful. I can make the whole world do the birdie dance and never even be seen.

Maybe that's the point, though. The whole Invisible Man bit. When was the last time, before _her_, that I even left the flat? Really, I'm counting back and I can't even remember. And now, this week, suddenly I'm very, very visible indeed. To Hugo, to the Yanks, to dear Treadstone (who I think maybe I'm spoiling; he's starting to get this sort of expectant look about the eyes). To no one more so that Danielle.

Something creeps up on me. One of those little gremlins that live with you silent and unnoticed until you're just perfectly vulnerable for them and then _latch_ themselves to the back of your head. Something stupid or embarrassing you did. Something humiliating that was done to you. Horrible things. I don't hold with memory, you know, memory and me fell out a while back now. But sometimes it still gets its way.

For instance, this one. It's from when I was very young. The social were round anyway about one of the sisters. And I'd done something while the fucker was there, something bad, and I can _never_ remember what it was. Given, I'm about five at this stage, so you wouldn't expect it, but I feel like I should. And he tells my mother, right there in front of me, that I'm just to be ignored. No attention of any sort. Even negative attention, he says, would be pandering to me.

Well, you could certainly never call what I've had from Miss Mies all week positive. Either she's hands-all-over or she's hissing her lethal intentions at me. But the long and the short of it is, she's paying attention. Not just to words on a computer or instructions over the phone, but to _me_.

These are just facts. This is just the argument being presented.

I don't pretend to understand it.

All I know is that everything is finally clean and tidy since her last little visit and I'm waiting for her come back.

I don't pretend for a second that any of it makes sense.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I don't go to Hugo's and I don't crash out anywhere. I go straight back to her. Just in case.

And when I open the door, though nothing is out of place, something has happened. You get that feel of it. Danielle is coiled, asleep, in the corner of the sofa. Her dress is still on the floor but she has the blanket wrapped around her. It's more than that, though. Things have been disturbed, moved and put back.

I don't know what she could have been looking for, but she searched the place.

Half an hour ago, this would have been the perfect distraction. But I've been counting kerbstones all the way back just to make it this far and now it's just an annoyance.

At a glance, the shift in any dust shows she's been trying drawers, boxes, some of the thicker books. There's a connecting factor and if I was in a better place I'd know what it was. I follow entirely the wrong lead and go with the drawers, checking the telephone table, beneath the television, then drifting into the kitchenette. Need a spoon anyway. Actually, the spoon is the better idea. Definitely. Best get gathering, get started. Yes, the spoon.

The carving knife is missing.

Ah. A weapon. The heavy books and drawers and boxes; looking for a hidden gun. So yes, I get the spoon, but the next move is to cautiously approach Danielle. With the blanket round her, it's hard to see at first.

But her arm is by her side, hand tucked down between the cushion and the arm. Very slowly, very gently, I start to reach down alongside. When she senses me and wakes, it's sudden. Gasping. Her hand tries to pull up past mine and I feel just the back edge of the knife press against me. But her eyes widen when she recognizes me and she drops it. "It wasn't for you, I swear."

I believe her. Believe and pity, because that was the only way she could sleep. Because that was the way she woke up.

Sleepily, "Did you score?"

As if the word itself is the trigger, the first sudden wave of pains and cramps drops me down next to her. Left it just that little too long, it seems. Damn her need for protection, I could be high by now, but here it is, ugly and shaking. But Danielle rolls up onto her knees, leaning over me. She brushes hair off my face, mops sweat with the corner of the blanket. Her hand wriths in my pockets for the gear and concomitant gear. While I try and get out of my coat, she leans forward over the coffee table, with the lighter, with the spoon. Cotton. Needle.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Helping, but why?"

She doesn't answer that. She has my arm held tight under hears, stretched, tapping up a vein.

And the terrible parts of me are saying it's because I'm her best shot, and I'm useless to her in withdrawal. That my hands are shaking and I'm liable to fumble the spike and then where will she be?

She's left-handed, wrist crooked to a strange angle and then that doesn't matter anymore because she fires and it hits. It's spot-on, bullseye, right on fucking target and when it hits my hands stop shaking. She gives the needle into my hand so I can clear it. Sits back quietly under the blanket again, until my head falls against her shoulder when she reaches up to stroke my hair.

"Better?"

I manage a sound like a 'yes'.

"Good."

"Thank you..."

"Least I could do."

"Why?"

"...Because you saved me from burning."  
>That's nice. The terrible parts of me didn't think of that one. That's a much nicer thought to drift away on.<p>

* * *

><p>[AN - To all my lovely readers - you people are wonderful. Thanks for following. I don't know why I'm stopping to say this now, except that I never really get a chance to do it. It means a lot to me that any single one of you would read. I hope you're all still enjoying. Hearts - Sal.]


	26. Bought:Paid For

_Sherlock_

My arm is being shaken, but they're asking for somebody called Jeremy, so they've got it wrong. If I just leave it they'll realize eventually and go away.

Then I remember where I am and who I'm being today and open my eyes. Danielle is handing me my own mobile. "I tried to take a message," she says, "But he's insisting." She gets up as I take it from her, padding to the kitchen. "Do you mind if I cook?"

"Go ahead. Hello?"

"A little siesta, is it?" Mycroft. Can't even pass out in peace anymore. "Then again, I hear you had quite an eventful night."

Covent Garden. Definitely something we need to discuss, but not something Danielle needs to hear. I peel off the sofa, down the hall. I'll get what I can from Mycroft behind a closed door and decide what to tell her afterward. If anything. Nobody says I have to share anything with Danielle. Just because she's… _nice_, Christ, it keeps coming up…

Closed into the bathroom, "Yes; what do you know about what happened? Can't see any of Her Majesty's lot having the gall to fire a gun at the opera. Even if it was during the interval."

"Mmh, unfortunate incident," he says. And maybe it's just because I'm still a little bit high, but I have to laugh at that. Most British thing I've ever heard. Laughing at Mycroft, however, is a mistake. Now he can say, "Who was that who answered?"

Danielle hasn't given any preferred false name, so I'll have to go generic. "Friend. It's something people do sometimes, but you won't need to worry about it. What do you have on the shooter?"

"It's a third party. All under control. That's all I wanted to say, actually. A female _friend_ who's there when you're asleep?"

Oh, she said 'asleep'. That was kind.

"You wouldn't like her, she doesn't look like Mother. What do you mean 'all under control'?"

"Exactly what I say. We got them. Mies and Darcy. So there's no need for you to continue with any investigation."

Usually I don't like to state the obvious, but this one is just too delicious. I want to lay this one right out so I can enjoy it properly like a fine cigarette, and take my time over it. Are you ready? They may very well have Jon Darcy. I have no information to the contrary. The tiger could be in captivity. But the lady is at large and, oh, brother dear, that you could know it, making me dinner _as we speak_.

And to state the slightly-less obvious? I must be in _real_ danger for him to be lying about it.

I must say, I've woken up to much, much worse.

"Oh, both of them? Overnight? Well done you."

"Yes, it would seem the minions aren't quite as incompetent as you would have it, Sherlock."

"I've never said they were incompetent." I told you; I don't like to state the obvious. "Is that everything, Mycroft? My services are no longer required?"

"Mummy wants you to come home for a bit."

"Why?"

"Glutton for punishment?"

"Make my excuses, would you?"

"Sherl-"

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

I never tire of hanging up on Mycroft. I don't think I ever will. It's one of the few absolutely consistent tiny pleasures in this life. But very quickly after that I leave the whole conversation locked in the bathroom and return to Danielle.

She's still on the phone. Holding it against her shoulder, pretending not to notice that I'm there. Trying to find a place for her cat, it would seem. Still preoccupied with the brute creature that probably doesn't even know it's changed hands… "What if I say 'please' though? Really? Take a second and think about that because I can say it _really_ nicely. Oh, go on, it's only a couple of days. He takes care of himself. If he could use a tin opener he wouldn't even need us stupid humans… Hello?"

But her intended rescuer is gone, and not a tail hair of his white steed left behind. She swears, lets the phone fall to the floor and kicks it away.

"Bad news?"

"My flat's not secure. I need to find a sitter for Treadstone before I can steal him back. What about you, anything interesting?"

"Good news."

"Oh?"

I should stop. Absolutely, I should stop and think about what I can and can't, should and shouldn't tell her. But for one, it's irresistible, and for another, she's standing at a cooker I personally have never used, preparing food for me, wearing my slippers and blanket and I just feel like she deserves the laugh.

"Brilliant news for you. You've been caught." She stops, slowly turns. The blanket falls off one shoulder and she fixes it. Begs my pardon. "Yes. Friend of mine, bit of an insider, says they got you last night. You _and_ Jon Darcy."

"Oh. Well, I hope they're pleased with themselves. Your insider, we're not… _expecting_ him or anything?"

"Yes and no. There could be somebody watching the place pretty soon."

Mycroft heard a woman answer my phone. I won't be on junkie-spiral priority number one, but as soon as he gets a minute, I'll be under curiosity surveillance. But that's Britain all over; the most watched nation in the world, no such thing as the private life, a tabloid culture displaying more evolutionary development than the current technology markets, and Mycroft does so try to embody his work. There's no sense in lying to her about it. It'll only get her caught. And the more I think about it she really doesn't deserve a prison cell, or whatever other hell might be waiting for her. I've sent people to my brother before and I know for a fact they've never seen prison. Or anything else for that matter, ever again. Not sure I really want that for her.

Even the idea of surveillance shakes her. She leaves the stove, fetches her dress from the floor, her tights from the radiator.

"You're not leaving?"

"I have to stay under, I can't be seen."

"…What's the plan, Danielle? You can't intend to live like this. What's the exit?"

As she moves between cooking and dressing, there's a long bitter laugh. "The exit? The _exit_, Jeremy, was perfect and beautiful and I did a truly stunning job, and then it all caved in and the exit is currently a pile of rocks where an exit used to be and now I'm fucked."

"Excuse me?"

On her way to the fridge she gives up on the ruined tights, slings the dress back on. "You knew about the heist, right? The Gilès disappeared from the archive. What does that tell you? And do you _own_ crockery?"

"Top cupboard."

That one, I can answer. As to her first question, it's not that I don't _know_. I just don't want to say it out loud, not in front of her. She's absolutely right, of course; whenever I think back to that first story in the newspaper, back when she was still just a rogue art student as far as anyone was concerned, and I know she planned it perfectly. Those drawings vanished like nothing ever happened from a locked room.

Nobody was supposed to know.

Nobody would have known. At least not until Darcy and Mies were far, far away. Not if there hadn't been some bloody smart-arse scumbag who had to make a point to a duty sergeant. They might not even have checked for months.

Danielle is putting soup down in front of me and I've piled rocks in front of her exit. Says she's starving, wishes she could stay, says it's not an option. And when she's halfway to a much easier door, all I can think to do is call her back.

"Leave a number. They won't stay long. I'll call when they're gone and… well, if nothing else, your cat can stay."

She all but jumps, with a cry of great relief. Flies back across the room on the balls of her feet and, quickly, before I can do anything about it, kisses my cheek.

"_Wonderful_ man! You already have my number."

"Do I?"

From the far side of the door, closing herself out, "Why do you think I had your phone?"

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

She took her fecking time. When I finally realized she wasn't just going to walk up to the door, I put out the lights and went where she wouldn't be able to see me from the windows. I'm out in the dining room when I finally hear the dull crack of something being jammed into the frame. I stay back behind the door to watch.

Danielle slips the latch with the jimmy bar and pushes. The window only opens towards the top and less than a foot. This must have been how she got in last time. She told me she slipped in before I shut the window, and hid in the spare room wardrobe. All the torture, all the messages, she did that from her phone. And when I left she bolted a chair to the floor and the rest is history. But I'm interested to see how she does it.

She hangs by one hand from the window frame, and I get my heart up in my throat as she reaches down and unbuckles the harness around her waist. It's attached to the rope that brought her down from the roof and it's all that's supporting her. But she doesn't seem afraid. It falls away, and bounces up on some kind of retractor. Then with both hands on the frame, Danielle very simply lifts her feet up in front of her and curls her body up inside. Moves one hand from outside to the edge of the window, then the other, and rolls down heels over head. The actual drop is about three feet, and she's practically silent.

Made it all look so _easy_, too.

She does a quick sweep of the exits, a cursory check for me, and then starts to pad about, hissing for Treadstone.

She finds him asleep on my pillow. Scoops him mewling into her arms and turns, only to find me in the doorway.

Yeah, I can be sneaky and quiet too, in my own home. Me not being a horrible thief I wouldn't do it anybody else's.

And yes, I'm holding the Caravaggio, but it's only a precaution. I'm holding it down at waist level so she doesn't have to look, and she doesn't. Tips her eyes to the ceiling while she's swearing at me.

"Impressive entrance. Can you not do doors?"

"I thought you might have somebody watching the front."

"I'm not out to get you, Danielle. I _should_ be. I have every right from the Lex Talionis to the current British legal system to be out to get you, but I'm not."

"You do a fucking good impression. And by the way, Hugo's lot are visible at about a hundred yards. He's never a good option."

"What else could I do? We need to talk and you wouldn't come back by yourself."

"So you thought you'd kidnap my cat?"

"Pet ransom is a truly blossoming area. Anyway, you're lucky the Americans didn't get him."

That's the key. I mention that lot and suddenly she's willing to talk. On the condition that I put the painting down and get her a sandwich, she's willing to talk.

I can do that. Put the painting down, I mean. I've still got the stereo remote in my pocket if she tries anything.

"Where've you been hiding yourself, then? Do you have a stable of fools to fall back on or is it a luck-of-the-draw thing?"

"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

"Come now, Danielle, I _think_ you mean 'weakness'."

"Same dif… So you spoke to Count Zaroff then?"

"Tall grey gentleman, big facial scar?"

"That's the one. His real name's Steele."

"How very appropriate. Yeah, he accosted Ruby at your place, showed up to me with the cat." She's not letting go of Treadstone by the way. Holding him against her, and he seems content to lie against her chest. She even eats around him. Any moment her hand is free it's stroking back his ears.

"I presume the two of you reached some sort of deal."

"You," I tell her, straight out. "You in exchange for all information on you and Darcy, what you've done, why you're in this."

"…Why?"

"Because I'm curious." She opens her mouth, maybe-just-maybe about to tell me something interesting for once, when there's a knock at the door. Her head whips round and we know, both of us, just exactly who it is. The timing's too perfectly fucking awful to be anyone from this country. "Danielle, I swear I didn't know-"

"I know you didn't, you're not that fucking stupid. So what are you going to do?"

"Stay very still and hope he goes away?"

"You're fucked when you don't have me. You don't get points for trying."

Another, less patient knock.

"Any suggestions, love?"

She chews her lip, puts Treadstone down at her feet. "How long can you stall him?"

"About two minutes, with nothing to tell him."

"I need four." Large parts of me are crying not to be left alone with an angry American for four whole minutes, but Danielle is already on her way back out the window. She wasn't really asking me if I could do it; it was more a statement of how long she would be.

There's a pounding at the door this time, and my name being called. He must know for sure I'm here or he wouldn't be quite so adamant.

Danielle is looking back at me through the glass, flexing her hands for the climb back up. "Leave the door on the latch," she says. "Now, I'm coming back for him, but I swear to go, if I get so much as a sniff that you're fucking me over-"

"I won't. I was never going to."

Although, now that she mentions it? Now that she's disappearing and I'm walking to the door all on my own with no idea if I'll even _last_ four minutes?

I'm not saying I'm going to? I'm just saying you can't deny the idea has many more merits than it does flaws…


	27. Michael:Sebastian

_Jim_

_Michael_ Steele, is the man's name, in fact. And for some stupid reason I can't stop thinking that Michael Archangel is the patron saint of police. That it was Michael who once, with ruthless efficiency, swept all the bad eggs, every last one, from the premises of the heavenly host and down into the Below.

That wicked bitch has left me alone with an avenging archangel copper who probably has a good idea that I'm going to try and pull a move.

He's taller than me, but his suit's not as good, so it about balances. He's a man of action, so everything he wears has to be tough and stain-resistant, all man-made fibre and done over so many times with the dry-cleaner's hose that he might as well leave all the little cloakroom tickets stapled all over it, it's so obvious. If he didn't carry himself so well, he'd look like any other down-at-heel businessman, with his little dark case.

That wasn't there yesterday.

That must have the information I asked for in it.

Minute one begins with this assessment and the usual exchange of good evenings and pleasantries while I have him check his gun at the hall table and try and get him as far away from the cold little explosion stick of death as humanly possible. I probably _shouldn't_ however try and use the promise of fine whiskey to do this, because at that point he knows I have absolutely nothing else to offer him.

Minute two begins with him spotting Treadstone snuffling about the last of the sandwich. Treadstone, who's pretty good about being carried and stroked and scratched, usually, shies from Steele's touch, and I note for the first time that his hands and neck are covered in scratches where he tried to carry him last night. Thinking, "Good lad," and wondering how she managed to train him against Americans.

"Nobody's come to claim the little fella, then?"

If I say 'no', there are maybe another thirty seconds in this conversation, max. And I don't like how I see it ending.

"Oh, she did. I've just decided I quite like him for myself. That proper Bond effect when people come round, y'know?"

"It's an old terror," Steele concedes, "to think a man cares more about an animal than about human life. So she came and went again, sir?"

"I knew you were coming. I was hardly going to keep her here."

"You see, this perplexes me, Mr Moriarty-" Oh, he's going to _talk_, is he? Going to do a little speech? Go on, son, knock yourself out. Take your time. Enunciate. It's not the stage, you know, you don't get to try again tomorrow night, so make it count. Don't fluff it, mate, just breathe it out. "I've spoken to a couple of people about you, since we last met. And the general consensus is that you're an unscrupulous son-of-a-bitch with all the moral compunction of a stone gargoyle."

"Why, thank you. Have you a point to make, at all?"

"Why are you protecting Danielle Mies? I, uh... Not to put too fine a point on it but if she's... _gotten_ to you, sir? You're not the first."

Jesus, you have to laugh. These yanks, it's all sex-sex-sex.

"Because I need to know what she's done before I hand her over?" Another long laugh brings us into minute three. "Mr Steele, I need to know she's not of any use to _me_ before I go passing her around. I had rather hoped to tear her heart out my own self, and I've a funny feeling that if I give her over to you, mate, I'm not going to get that opportunity."

"Mr Moriarty, if you keep Mies, the only thing you bring down on yourself is the combined force of my people and the British Security Service."

"Then just to satisfy my curiosity, what's she done?"

He sets the case down on the worktop. Which he really shouldn't because it's been outside and probably on the ground and I've already had to do more cleaning than is becoming to a man of my station and status these couple of days but we'll let it go, we'll let it go for now. I could be trying to draw him away from it. That's one option. But then who's to say Danielle won't just slip in, grab that and leg it, and there's me back at the far end of Fuck All Street, her gone and Mr Steele very angry and still (I'm not ashamed to say it) a lot bigger than me. No. He can sit right where he is on the barstool, and in the interests of good hospitality, I'll fetch down that whiskey from the cupboard and sort him out.

"How do I even know you have her?"

You know, I was hoping you'd ask me that, because I have no idea how long it'll take her to answer her phone, or where she's even hiding it on that outfit. This stalling thing's easier than it sounded, y'know. He's doing it all for himself. So I pull out my mobile and get her mobile number up before he can see it, explaining, "She's locked up tight, but I knew you were going to ask so I left her an incoming line."

"She's alone?"

"Of course she is. You think I'm going to chain that cunt up and leave a fella in charge of her? She'd have been out the door behind me."

"You could have put a woman in charge."

"...The mind just races, doesn't it, Mr Steele." Ringing. I tell him so. Not because it matters, but because I know the running commentary irritates him. But she _answers_ in fact, just ten seconds shy of the all-important fourth minute.

"I'm a bit busy, believe it or not."

"_Danielle_, darling! How are you? Haven't chewed through your leg or anything yet?"

"Oh, right, so I'm in captivity, am I?"  
>"<em>Good<em>, good. Listen, got your new owner here. Just looking for a little proof-of-life, so to speak, so if you wouldn't mind-"

"And you're selling me out. You can put me on speaker now, James." I do as she says, put the phone down on the worktop between us, " –_astard, I will feed _pieces_ of you to zoo animals, do you understand me, and I will personally see to it that the fucking tigers have your withered little cock, though I wouldn't blame them turning their noses up at it, either-_" She goes on, but a glance at Steele, and the nod from him, and I can hang up on her.

"She's a sweetheart, ain't she?"

"She's a vicious fucking harridan, but I can always use one of those. Give me one good reason to give her up."

"Danielle Mies was one of a party of two who undertook the assassination of Nkwambe King three weeks ago. I was hired by King's son to see them both safely returned to Goganye, so that the appropriate measures can be taken."

"Public execution?"  
>"More than likely."<p>

And I lift my eyes up over his head, where a vicious fucking harridan with a fire extinguisher is poised to strike. She crept into the room just as she got off the phone, already armed. "What do you say, love? Do you want to be a YouTube sensation?"

Just as Steele realizes what's going on and starts to turn, she brings the red barrel down on the back of his head, hard.

He slumps, then sort of slithers off the stool and gathers at the foot of it.

"That was only three-and-a-half," I tell her.

"I know. The roof door was a lot easier than it had looked."

So I lean forward over the breakfast bar and look down at the crumpled heap of American and, "Is he...?"

"Very maybe. Good spot, good strike. I'd make it an eighty-five percent chance."

"But there's no blood."

"I know. I hyperpressurized his brain instead of just bashing it in." I glance up. "Well, I didn't want it all over your floor."

Her hand is creeping towards his cases. Mine darts out and snatches it away.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Mies is gone and can't stop me. My usual semi-visible entourage are preoccupied, waiting around to see what she looks like, and so I won't be followed. This is the only safe time to visit Jon Darcy again. Maybe this time I can leave without the taste of gun oil in my teeth.

Mies protects Darcy, won't speak about him. If I can get to him, if they both know I'm on side and both accept me, then I can get the full story from them. And I recall, oh, _very_ well, just how sensitive Darcy was about his partner-in-crime last time and I know that she's my best leverage.

This making-friends business might turn out to be a better idea than I had ever suspected.

In addition, if the missing Gilès are still in London, they're with him. They might not be, might be a million miles away disguised as concept art or university work or a private collection, but I don't think so. Those drawings mean far too much to them; they were the exit plan, their only ammunition to hold off Mycroft's lot. There's something _in_ those drawings, something that the very highest levels in the land are afraid of. They were buried in the gallery, locked away never to be displayed. Not in a vault somewhere where they'd look out of place, but in the National Gallery where they're any other set of drawings by an unfashionable artist. They never would have seen the light of day except for this. No, the whole story is in those drawings and I think Jon Darcy knows where they are.

But, you know, all done in the friendliest _possible_ way, of course.

Darcy is still bunkered down in the same dive as before. It's working out for him so far, so why would he leave? My first visit wouldn't have spooked him enough to risk the move.

But when he opens the door this time, the gun is ready. His own, not a military issue. Probably customized if not made in Mexico; I judge this from the decorated handle, the colourful depiction of a martyr tied to a post and full of arrows. St Sebastian. Patron of soldiers, athletes, enemies of God. Gunsmiths too, actually.

"You. You'd better have word for me."

"Word? Yes, just the one; 'Hello'."

The gun lifts, looking for my mouth again, "Now don't get fucking smart, right?"

"Oh, not from me. From Danielle."

That's how I get myself pulled into the room and put down in the only chair. Darcy leans over me, one hand on the arm, one drawing lazy circles in the air with the muzzle of the gun. "You'd think you'd have learned your lesson for gassing about her, wouldn't you?"

"If you'd take that thing out of my face I could _explain_." But he doesn't. He knows full well I can explain with it hanging there, that I'm more likely to tell him the truth if it's in the corner of my eye. And it glitters, polished over and over. It's all he has since he got here. He smells of fear and sweating metal from inside his palm and he has done for days. That's how I know the drawings are here. No one was ever supposed to find him. That's why Danielle protects him so. That's how I know what to say. "She told me where to find you. She _asked_ me to come here. Naturally I was a bit wary after last time, but it's important. I understand that."

Darcy considers it, then starts to shake his head. "She wouldn't send anybody here."

"She would, because she knows the pressure you're under the longer you're here with the... the _items_." This time, the steel goes hard against my temple. Which is a definite improvement on the mouth; it means I'm still allowed to talk. "And don't start telling me she wouldn't have mentioned that, because this is going on too long now. Everybody's starting to get desperate. Think about it, Darcy; where's your new life sitting empty, just waiting for you?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, _there is no new life_! Would've thought Dani'd have figured that out!"

This is new. This is unexpected. The gun actually goes away so he can make a despairing little lap around the room, throwing his arms open, declaiming this to the ceiling and any passing god that might catch it.

"They _said_ there was. New identity, millionaire lifestyle, diplomatic immunity, protection from here on out, and they made it sound fucking real and all. All part of the payment package, they said. Ask not what you can do for your fucking country, this is what your country'll do for you..."

"...MI5 set you up. You did the job and they turned around to kill you. They're scared of the drawings, so you stole them to use as barter."

"MI6," he says. "Fivers are only dealing with it now because we're back in the country. Fucking compartmental system, you can't even keep an eye on the same people..." But he trails off there. And turns towards me, slowly, suspiciously. "You said all that like it was new to you. Like you'd just put it together..."

Note to self: much less likely to end up with gun in mouth if more careful about what's said aloud in front of the suspects.

He's kicking himself. Thinking he must really have been here too long if he's fallen for this sort of a trick. Thinking how last time I let him know that I was connected to the people who were after them and that might there not be a very _slight_ possibility that my return visit could be masking an ulterior motive. In short, I need to think of something _very_, very clever indeed before I am erased from the face of the earth.

It's not coming to me. The old flash of brilliance, it's... it's just not about at the moment.

"Call her. Call Danielle, ask her if I'm with or against you. She'll confirm it."

That's all I can think of. Even to me it sounds weak. But to my utter shock it actually stops him, he actually lingers a moment, looks torn and regretful and distant.

If I'm reading that right; "I know there's not supposed to be any direct contact, but I think we're getting a bit beyond that now, don't you? There's only so long you two can outrun them, and you're doing a stellar job holding the fort down here, but the fact is, Danielle's on her own. She needs you. She's doing her best, but she's been kidnapped and beaten and shot at and she's been running so hard. To hell with me, forget about that, but _call_ her. She needs you, Jon, she needs to know you're still behind her."

I must say, I should just run with the desperate last resort more often; this has worked. He gestures me down into the chair, using the gun, of course. I raise my hands to show I don't intend to go anywhere.

He walks away from me and picks up a mobile from the dresser, and behind him the entire time my eyes are moving, asking myself, if I were a highly trained military man on the run from his own country where would I hide my only chance at freedom? Somewhere that's not too obvious, somewhere where even a thorough search might miss it, and those people Mycroft hires will tear up the very carpets if they think it'll work. They'll smash the furniture to pieces looking for a stash.

A drawing, I mean. Looking for a drawing.

I stop scanning the place as Darcy turns back to me. "Did _she_ say any of that?"

Oh, he's smart... Um... "She doesn't _need_ to." He's about to laugh, about to tell me how he nearly fell for that one, already setting the phone down. With my own approach failing me, I decide to try hers. "She sleeps with a knife in her hand, Jon. _When_ she sleeps, that is..."

Heartstrings, too, turn out to be more effective than I had ever previously imagined.


	28. Opportunity:Motive

_Sherlock_

I don't eavesdrop on the conversation Darcy has with Danielle. More I'm in the room and the conversation is happening and I can't just choose to be deaf all of a sudden. That's not my fault. Blame my exceptionally keen senses. Blame the genes that gave them to me. Blame incipient craving and the need to listen to _something_ or go mad.

In brief, at the first sound of his voice, she panics, and he spends maybe a minute allaying any fears. At this, she then spends another minute berating him for calling if there's nothing wrong, until he convinces her that the line is secure.

You could be forgiven for thinking he's another one of her _rides_. He refers to her only by terms of endearment. Sweetheart, darling, pigeon. Pet, which would mark him as more of a northerner than his faded accent would have one believe. Princess. But it's just because she's made him paranoid about the line; he's avoiding real names. No, really, his speech, his syntax, the tone he takes with her, it's the way of a brother. Affectionate. Pure, without desire.

The whole time, he's going about, leaning on the dresser, the bedside cabinet, the windowsill, and there's something about the way he moves that I can't help but watch. Something strange. Something I should be paying more attention to than the talking, but it's harder to concentrate on an unknown quantity. I try forcing it and my head swims.

But no, I have to do this, have to make this work, so I focus, isolate the elements of his movement, the shift of weight just before every step, the centre of gravity travelling just slightly behind, and it would be so much bloody easier to do if he would just stop _wandering_ about the place.

Which is when it hits me.

Jon Darcy has _perfect_ posture. Soldiers don't. Soldiers overshoot when they stand to attention and they tend to arch backward. And Jon Darcy hasn't settled himself which, given his inferred history, you'd expect him to. In a corner of the room where the windows and main door are in front of him and the bathroom door would shield him were someone to force it open. Find a vantage point and keep it. And now that I look at the bed there is one perfect long dent down the middle, and nothing else. Sleeping out straight and flat as the dead.

I know where the drawings are.

This is the thing about paintings. Everybody always thinks they're looking for _The Wedding at Cana_, great huge boards or canvases you need a whole wall to hang. Easy to forget _La Gioconda_ is only A4. And these Gilès, they're just sketches. Drawings, colour tests. Scraps the artist probably only kept because he forgot to throw them out. Sketchbook pages.

He's got them wrapped about him. It's bloody brilliant too. Hidden, not in plain sight, but under the crusty t-shirt where you'd never want to look. And if anything happens, he's got everything he needs already there. Darcy can run while they tear the place apart looking.

It's brilliant. It's absolutely brilliant. Unless he gets shot, I suppose…

Anyway, in all this inspiration and subsequent appreciation, I've rather lost track of the conversation.

What I do know is that Darcy really shouldn't be looking at me in that curious, almost-barely-raging way. I should not be hearing the words, "Sparrow, I'll call you back."

He shouldn't be hanging up just yet.

He's waiting for me to speak.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Nothing. Dani's on fine form. Matter-fact, last thing she says to me there, before I hung up, is, 'Jon, there's a gentleman here who might just be about to solve all our problems.' Now, if _he's_ there-"

"Who-"

"Don't know, haven't had a chance to ask. I wanted to deal with this first. Because if she's got him, who the hell are you?"

"I have no idea who this other-"

"That's not what I asked you." I'm getting that metal sort of taste between my teeth again. I can act now, or this isn't going to end my way. I'm not sure I'm going to get away with it again. "Who the hell are you?"

"People keep bloody asking me that…"

"Well, you'll answer _me_, mate."

No. Probably not. What I might do is, as he approaches to put that fucking gun against my head, oh, one more time, I might put a fist beneath his ribs, and feel a slight crackle of paper to confirm my suspicions. While Darcy is thus incapacitated I will remove the gun from his grip and send it into the bathroom rather sharply, before incapacitating him further by pulling his head down past me into the arm of the chair. Ideally he'll be unconscious at this stage, but it's not happening for me. He is, however, dazed enough for me to find the Velcro edge of the muslin wrap around his middle and pull it off.

Yeah, let's go with that plan.

And then? Well, he's a big gentleman, looks like he'll get up quick enough. So after the initial plan, we'll go with running. Lots of it. Far. Not stopping much. Mostly just running.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

"Well, I don't know about _all_ your problems, love… I mean, you're _deeply_ disturbed, Danielle, I just don't think I'm qualified."

"All of our immediate problems, I meant… He's hung up on me."

Probably she'd be more worried about that if I hadn't just solved all of her immediate problems. She was on the phone when it occurred to me. Looking down at Mr Steele, lying on my floor with a sheet under his head since his hyperpressurized brain started threatening to leak out his ears. It's okay though; it's the sheet I already used for Danielle the other night, so it's not getting wrecked.

Sudden flash of inspiration. I'm _actually_ quite proud of myself. I'm a planner, see, I like to do things with everything figured out, from far above. All this improv, this is a bit sexy and new.

I wrote it down and put it in front of her. Didn't want to interrupt. She talks to her partner-in-crime like a fawning, worried aunt, and it was too funny to watch.

I wrote down:

_Yanks want you dead._

_ MI5 still need you alive._

_ MI5 won't like the Yanks._

_ Dead Yank on the floor._

I probably could have made it clearer if I'd had time to think about it. But she seems to have gotten the point. In the new silence she's standing looking at me, glancing down at Steele. She crouches to shut his eyes and I follow her. "I'm still sorry I had to kill him in your flat, but do you really think this'll work?"

"Yes."

"Okay then, I'm not actually that sorry. How do we do this?"

I'll explain it to you the way I explain it to her. Obviously you and I, dear and constant reader, aren't carrying a body in a sheet between us, swinging out onto the landing and round the corner to the roof exit, so it loses some of the urgency. You can imagine, I'm sure.

Firstly, what we do is take Mr Steele to the roof. We go to the edge and lift him up between us as though he were standing by himself. And then we push him off, feet first. As though he jumped.

"It won't work," she says, even while she watches him fall. "Autopsy," she says. The thunk of him landing below underscores her point. "Look! We didn't even crack his head. They'll know in a half-second."

"That's the point." I explain, leading off back to the stairs before anybody can chase us up. "They spot he was killed beforehand, coolly, professionally, in a practically invisible way-"

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Credit where credit's due, angel. – And then that it was made to look like suicide. They'll question who would do such a thing. They'll look into Mr Steele, find out what he does for a living, question why he's even in the country. At which point, the James Bond Fan Club For Men will step in and put a stop to the investigation."

"MI5 will know the Americans are after us. They need us alive to torture to find out where the drawings are-"

"Therefore, they will remove the Americans from your path that you might not be killed before revealing, yes. I have solved your Yankee Doodle problem. We'll burn Vauxhall Bridge when we get to it." The first concerned neighbours are bolting for the roof, and I am pouring the first glass of wine for her and me. Danielle is sitting at the breakfast bar, and accepts it graciously. Looking up at me. Very strange look in her eyes. "No," I tell her.

She balks, "_What_?"

"You're having… _bad thoughts_."

"I am eternally grateful to you. I would _usually_ deal with feelings of eternal gratitude by making myself _physically_ _available_ to the object of said-gratitude-"

"Nicely put, very delicate, but just don't even actually start to get the drift of maybe beginning to think about it, dear."

"-_Which_ option is, naturally, completely denied to me in this case given you find me repulsive, and so now I am confused. That's all it is. I just don't know what to do with all the _feelings_. I'm trying very, very hard not to kiss you right now."

"And I appreciate the effort."

And that's that. No more of that. We'll have none of that here, thank you very much, Danielle. But God, Jesus Christ, that _woman_ and her _filthy_ fecking mind, I _swear_ you can still hear her _thinking_ it. Honestly. I'll never do anything nice for her again if this is where we end up. _Fuck_, it _itches_ and she hasn't even touched me, itches _everywhere_ because there's nothing to centre it and nowhere to scratch it off. I'm starting to twitch, fuck's sake, and the wine's not making it any better. Just getting wound up.

I don't think it shows, though.

"Are you alright?" I didn't think it was showing.

"I'm fine."

"Oh, really, ignore me. Look. Over. Look at me, I'm chaste. Pure as the driven snow. I'm a _nun_, Jim-"

"Don't bring them into this…"

Danielle takes her glass, quickly and discreetly walks away. She finds Treadstone in the living room, stays with him. It's a couple of minutes before I'm able to join her. It takes a concerted effort, but I have to; she can't help the way she thinks. And if she's grateful then I owe it to her to be gracious.

"Have you ever thought of doing this for a living?" she calls. Changing the subject. Making herself neutral again.

"Killing Americans? For about three years as a teenager."

"Solving problems."

"That's already what I do."

"No. You set things up. If you solve problems it's just to tighten the plan. But if people were fucked, or they didn't know how to go about it, would you-"

"I'll stop you there, love. Magic word, there."

"Ah. _People_. You wouldn't want a client-based business. That's a real pity, y'know. You're good at it."

I don't quite know what to say to that. I just sit down, and the living room is dim and warm. She lets Treadstone go and he curls at my feet. And everything, for a second, is comforting, and… really nice, actually. Almost like she _fits_.

Her phone rings and the whole thing shatters.

She answers, that same concerned den-mother voice, "Jon, what the fuck happened? What? No. No, but-" And the rest, as Hamlet didn't say, is profanity. Not the usual kind. Not just Danielle swearing like she does, the way she deals with things she doesn't like. This is her scared. She hangs up and is halfway out the door before I can call her back. And when she turns her eyes are wet and she bites her lip.

"I thought we were saved," she mutters. "We're still fucked. We're so fucked…"

"What's happened?"

"The drawings. The only thing we still had. The fucking bloody bastard drawings are gone."

* * *

><p>[AN – Listen, ladies and gents, this is the last chapter I had prepared. I'll be honest and say I'm not getting a lot of hits on this story. If, however, there's anybody out there who's interested in seeing it finished, I'll continue. Please, please let me know. I really want to see the tale through to the tail, but I don't want to commit if nobody's there. Please help decide. Hearts, to all who are still about, Sal.]


	29. Alone:A Visitor

[A/N - Okay, so I guess I'm continuing! You people are a pack of legends - I'm sorry that was so needy, and never meant to bring on any guilt, but it means a hell of a lot to me what you've all been saying. All my hearts, and from the bottom of them - Sal.]

_Jim_

"What do you mean the fucking bloody bastard drawings are gone? Gone where?"

"Gone. Nicked, ironically. Darcy's been attacked."

"Wait!" And I grab her back from the door. She spins with one hand pulled back in a claw. Ready to scratch my face off should I try to keep her. "We can't go charging out of the building right at this moment."

"Oh, really? Stop me."

"Dead American, Danielle? On the concrete? Cops coming? It's maybe just a _little_ bit suspect, don't you think?"

"_You_ can't go charging out of the building. I was never here. Treads!" The cat comes running by me and bounds up onto her arm and she says, with a finality and a sweetness, the neither of which I like the sound of, "Goodbye, Jim. Thanks for everything. I mean, you're a bastard, but… well, thanks."

And then she and her eternal gratitude are gone.

To the empty space she leaves in the doorway, I say, "Don't mention it."

And really don't, please. Don't talk about what happens if Danielle never comes back this time. No point in talking about that; she's not exactly inconspicuous. If she runs, I'll find her. Even if she can retrieve the drawings, she's still not safe from MI5, not by any means. She's right, though; if I express anything more than outraged middle-class interest in the fact that a foreign businessman has chosen _my_ home as the base to throw himself tumbling from this mortal coil, I'll be inviting investigation. And that fire extinguisher that should be in the hall is still sitting in my kitchen. Not being here would do exactly the same thing.

I can't follow her. Not just now.

When I go to hide the fire extinguisher, the briefcase is still sitting on the breakfast bar. For one, I take it off. I went over before why it shouldn't be up on food preparation surfaces, Mr Steele, thank you… For another it's time to get a look at the contents.

Now, what I could do is reproduce for you in facsimile everything that is given to me and read by me. You'd get a giggle, like I do, out of the myriad ways parties on both sides of the pond will try to justify themselves.

The Americans aren't shy. They'll say 'by any means necessary' and 'lethal force'. This is on the contract signed by the new president of Goganye, Nkwambe King Jnr, to have his father's killers brought back to his country for punishment.

Brits are a bit more self-conscious about it. I have photocopies of the Official Secrets act where Danielle Mies and Jonathon Darcy have signed below, swearing to keep safe everything they know that might impact on the commonwealth. Unfortunate they actually got around to signing. It means that what they've done isn't just burglary, but high treason. That's a shade worse when it comes to the court case.

Brits use words like 'neutralize' a lot more freely. Aw. Isn't that nice? Neutral. Not too hot, not too cold, this pre-emptive strike action is _just_ right.

Anyway, it really doesn't tell me much I couldn't have guessed. Nkwambe King was starting to lean towards the right. And towards being utterly tyrannical. For reasons best known to themselves, given that the country has nothing to offer and couldn't even have been much of a threat to them, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland decided that he should be removed from power. And living.

That's only sensible. Living people have this terrible habit of _talking_ about it when a conspiracy topples everything they've ever worked for.

The thief was hired to remove 'certain documents, details of which are to remain secret' from King's compound, and the trigger-happy SAS sharpshooter was seconded to MI5 so he could… do the obvious. The latter just so happened to be the son of a dead MI6 agent…

I hate that phrase. 'Just so happened'. It never means anything of the sort. Sounds so simple, so easy, and it never, ever is.

Out of interest, out of curiosity, I cross-search the terms, 'Mies', 'Security Service', 'Auguste Gilè'.

And I get a page about that troublesome painter full of scandal and intrigue about the people he hung around with in his lifetime. Pablo Escobar, Patty Hearst and, amongst others, social event and rumoured spy, Arthur 'Art' Mies.

The daughter of a 'friend' posed for the barbarian princess, remember? The Lady and the Tiger.

There's more to this. I knew Danielle hadn't told me everything, but this, this is a whole new goldmine underneath the old one. Whenever the Brits send the rest of the Americans yelping back off to the New World, she's still going to have them to deal with and _this_, this tale unfolding, this could be the key.

While I'm at the computer, I log on and check the Lo-jack transmitter I attached to Treadstone's collar. I've got her in Soho. I make a note of the address, and once I've done a bit more digging and it's safe to leave, I'll see her there.

Maybe I _can_ solve all of Danielle's problems. The immediate ones, anyway.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

She called. I'd forgotten about her; was supposed to call when the tail stopped watching the flat, but I forgot. First I was recovering after running. Then I had to have something to settle the nerves, balance out all the adrenaline. It was the only sure way to stay focussed, to be able to do what I've had to. There's nothing selfish or ill-advised about it; the only sure way to stay on task is to maintain a healthy, low-level buzz throughout.

I've been studying the drawings. All the little sketches, all the little notes around them. There are numbers on the corners of the pages and they are important. When everything is in order, there's a story there. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. 'Worth a thousand words' and all that.

The ending is missing, the big finale, but I think I know where to find it. But first I need confirmation that the story I'm reading in to this is true.

And if it is I need to sit down and write a list of all things I want from Mycroft, because this is good for all of them.

And then Danielle rang. Nearly told her she had the wrong number when she asked for 'Jeremy', but I caught it, just in time. Don't think she noticed.

"Are they gone?"

"Yes." They were gone when I got back, but as I say, she'd gone out of my head. "Are you nearby?"

"Ten minutes." I told her to come on over and she says, "I really can't thank you enough, you know. You've been very good. Can't believe my luck, you wandering across me at the gallery." I told you before she was 'nice'. It's really quite gratifying. I'm forced to wonder why she's going through all this now, but on a base level it's still very flattering to hear. I let her go and spent the ten minutes putting the drawings safely away, somewhere she won't look. Just in case.

She arrives just as she promised. Got changed somewhere too; now in a white vest and baggy jeans. And with the cat on her arm.

"This must be Treadstone."

I reach out, but he scratches. Danielle bats down the paw, apologizes; "He's met a lot of people this week. Give him a minute."

She puts him down, but he stays lingering around her legs, doesn't explore. For a second I watch. I'm usually alright with animals, and they're usually alright with me. Obviously I'm not _offended_ or anything… it's just a cat, after all…

When I look back up it's down the barrel of another bloody gun.

"Give them back," she says.

Two options: pretend I have no idea what she's talking about, maybe get shot. Answer honestly, maintain some face, probably not get shot.

"To who? You or the gallery?"

Another Mexican gun, but not Darcy's. This one features the venerated Santa Muerta, or Saint Death, a figure somewhere between the Virgin Mary and the Grim Reaper. She didn't have it before, Darcy must have been holding it for her. "Give them back," she says again.

I say nothing, and get to meet Santa Muerta face to face; Danielle drops the gun back in her palm and hits me, hard, on the temple. I hit the floor. There isn't quite room for her to step inside, so she kicks me over before she closes the door. Then again. And another. I told you before she was strong, but she's vicious too. There's nothing clean about how she fights. Solar plexus, nose, groin, she's out to cause the maximum of pain, not to follow any sort of rules. Now, I can take a beating. God knows I've had to down the years. But ultimately even I have to curl up in a ball and ask her stop.

She does. A moment later, vicious claws open up parallel scratches down my face. A hand no less animalistic lifts my head by the hair and hisses at me, "Where are they?"

"Hidden," I spit at her, dismayed to find there's blood in it.

In stressed, pretty sing-song, "Hidden where, Jeremy?"

"Think carefully and you'll get it."

"Listen, love, not having the best night, alright? And I quite like your face, so don't make me peel it like an apple."

"No, honestly. You'll get the joke. You'll like it better if you do it yourself."

"_Brave_ man," and she shoves my head hard against the floorboard.

"Ah-ah-ah, _neighbours_!"

"Let 'em come. Maybe I'll skin one of them instead. I know how good you can be to strangers, don't I?"

"Or do you?"

"We'll talk about who _you_ are later. Right now, I want my fucking pictures back."

"They're here, Dani, if you'd only look."

She tries again to split my skull, this time on the leg of the telephone table. When that doesn't work she kicks me over onto my back and brings her foot down on my stomach. Grabs me by the shirt and hauls me back across the floor. All credit to her, she puts me in the comfort of the armchair before she puts the gun back to my head. "God help me, you wouldn't be the first I've killed. If they're so easy to find, tell me why I shouldn't."

"In case you can't, of course."

The gun falls. She starts to look.


	30. Talent:Skill

_Sherlock_

God, give me the grace to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I'm not praying, not really. It's just one of those junkie things, and when you're curled on your side against a wall clutching your stomach, for one reason or another, these things come back to you.

The things I cannot change; Danielle is here and I have deeply wronged her. I accept that. She's tearing the place apart, currently, but hasn't forgotten me entirely. Every time she passes, she's very attentive. There are threats and blows and, occasionally, strange, sweet cajolings. She'll get very close, kneel down and lift my dizzy head into her lap, sit for a while stroking my hair and ask again where the drawings are.

"You're not thinking," I tell her, over and over. "You're just pulling things apart. If you thought about it you'd know."

"There's no time," she says. Maybe I'm just out of it, maybe it's the odd angle I have as she stares up to the window, but for a moment I could swear she's crying. "You don't understand. We need them. Moran and me, we…" Thinking about it makes her angry. Anger makes her hate me again. Hate makes her get up and kick me under the chin before she tears down the contents of one of the bookshelves.

"Warmer," I say.

The gun comes up, "Seriously, my friend, you are _pushing_ it."

She uses the word 'friend' but she doesn't mean it like she did this morning. But this morning feels like a long time ago. I suppose it's only right that things have changed.

The persistent beating, Danielle's distress, these are the things that I _could_ change. Courage isn't the problem either. It's taking more courage to keep taking it. No, I just don't want to give her the satisfaction, that's all. Violence isn't getting her anywhere, I won't let it. I'm not finished with those drawings, or with Danielle, and neither of them are leaving.

Is that wise? Who knows…

She moves along to another shelf, checking between books, dropping them as she goes. That's alright, I could care less about most of them. She hits the sheet music. It falls as a sheaf and scatters and she spends a frantic couple of minutes on the floor sifting through it.

"You're getting cold again." She hurls a volume of Goethe with _lethal_ accuracy. I think it cracks a rib. This time I _actually_ have to shout out, and it is _my _cry of pain that greets whatever concerned so-and-so has showed up to knock at the door. Her head flips towards the sound. "Well, I did try to warn you about the neighbours. Nosey bastards, they love a good abuse scandal round here. Very little excitement in their own-what are you doing? Why is your solution to every problem to take your clothes off?"

Well, at least this time it's just the vest, but this time there's no chaste, shielding sports bra beneath. She brings the shirt over, grabs my jaw at both sides to force it open and fills my mouth. Interesting enough, the taste makes the smells more real and I know where she stopped, where she changed. Darcy's. The top is Darcy's. He's told her everything. I suspected as much, but it's nice to have confirmation to think about while she's stepping out of his jeans. She takes the blanket from the back of the sofa and holds it loosely in front of her, pulls her hair down out of the ponytail and answers the door with the gun behind her back.

Speaking through just a few open inches at the side, and with a giggle, with a smile, "Hello?"

It's not Mycroft. Or Lestrade, or _anybody_ useful. It is, disgustingly, just a worried neighbour. He stammers something, says he heard noises. A handful of blanket is intentionally allowed to slide and gathered swiftly up again. She can control her blush reflex, you know. That's a bloody talent. That's like circular breathing or car maintenance. You can learn it, certainly, but unless you've got the knack it'll never be something you're good at.

It's a talent.

I'm pressed against the wall under the window. There's something heavy and dark propped against the wall at my head, something she hasn't knocked over yet. If I stretch out one hand I can just touch the edges of the paper on the floor.

"Yeah," she's saying, "I'm sorry. Things got a little bit…" And glancing back, suggesting the mess within without ever having to risk showing him, "Out of hand, I suppose."

It's not hard to see the picture she's painting. Pardon the pun… The good thing is, she's so distracted with trying to distract her victim that she's not paying any attention to me. Adrenaline and self-preservation kick in and I find the strength to sit up. I take the violin from its case and hope it hasn't gotten too out of tune with disuse.

The conversation ends, "We'll keep it down." Another beautifully timed slip, a more revealing one, as she closes the door. Whoever this faceless bastard is he walks away, and he's definitely not thinking about the noise anymore.

Danielle is.

Danielle is thinking about The Lark's Ascent, picked up at some random bar that I managed to make my eyes stay on. She falls first against the door, just leaning. Silent, which is enough of a change to drive me on. Strange, but playing still feels natural. The bow warms quickly and the sound mellows, gets richer. I remember how to do this, and it feels better than I remember, and for a moment I almost forget to watch her.

She's crept across from the door. Leaning on the arm of the sofa. It must have been blocking me before and she needs a good look. "You're fucking kidding me," she says, and I hardly hear her. I play on. Make mistakes, yes, lose the timing, yes, but I play on. The notes on the page get closer together, quickening into trills. I can't quite manage them, too out of practice, but the speed of the music hits her like… like a hit. Like a shot of the very best, the purest stuff. There's a terrible second when it lands where you're sure to the core of your soul, this is it, this is overdose, you're dead, and in that second she mutters at me. "Violin… It had to be the fucking Renaissance Junkie, didn't it…" The last long notes of a lark's flight and she knows she's not dying, it just feels better than ever. Manages, bravely, "You're butchering that, you talentless bastard," before dropping away in a perfect and most amenable faint. Strange to relate, but I'm certain she whispers from the edge of unconsciousness, "Déjà vu…"

Not going anywhere.

Not so long as I'm a talentless bastard, anyway.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

When I check the computer again, she hasn't moved. Or Treadstone hasn't, and I can't see Danielle letting go of him again. So that's where I go. The address in Soho, the one she ran to. I'll meet her and Mr Darcy there, we'll settle everything. Put a plan in place. Save them and then I can get back to figuring out whether I want to destroy every cell of the being that is Mies individually, or save her from Hugo and put her to work.

Who knows, maybe Darcy's a nice, straightforward sort of fella. Maybe he'll be the kind of person you can have a full and proper conversation with. The kind where you discuss the topic fully and rationally, like adults, with nobody perpetually thinking about sex. I live in hope, you know. Contrary to popular, I'm a fecking optimist.

I just don't get a lot of _reason_ to be optimistic.

The address turns out to be the scummiest dive you could fucking imagine. Rooms by the hour, Christ, the sign is _actually_ lit up in red, fuck's sake. I always knew she was a fecking whore; you hide where you're comfortable and this is where she's hiding. I rest my bloody case…

There are no rooms kept in the name Mies. Or Darcy. Moran yields a result though. I skirt an escaping john on the stairs and make my way to his door.

He's waiting, it would seem. Answers right and quick. He looks a friendly enough gent, tall and broad-chested, black, fine features, a compact build. Right proper soldier, just like his Wiki page said. With Treadstone's collar hanging from his hand.

"_Shite_."

But he doesn't immediately try to snap me in half for any reason. He actually smiles, puts a hand on my shoulder and brings me inside. "Don't worry. She told me all about you. Said to expect you. That's why she left the collar."

Clever fecking bitch. I could ask him how they found the tracker, but if I'm honest, I already know. She loves that cat. Any change would have been obvious to her.

"Where's she gone?"

"Get the drawings back."

"_What_? By herself?"

He shrugs, "She said she knew where to find them." Darcy checks the hall outside before he closes the door. Puts both the latch and the chain on. Can't blame him for being security conscious. Never mind all the fuckers chasing him, there's a certain thief I could mention and it seems prudent just to bolt the door when she comes calling. Never anything but trouble.

"And you _let_ her?"

Darcy laughs at me. "Dani's a capable girl, Mr Moriarty. She can take care of herself."

"But what if he's got a print up over the fireplace? What if he's watching _Inland Empire_ when she gets there?"

"She can handle it." He points to the chair in the corner. "Sit yourself down. Please."

It's that please. That separate, tagged-on please. He doesn't even mean it. It's an afterthought. That wasn't a request, it was an order.

"Nah, I'm alright, thanks; I'll stand."

"You could be here a while."

"Actually, I only came to see Danielle. Maybe I'll be off. I'll come back when she reappears, shall I?"

"_Or_, you could sit down."

"…_Shite_."

This time I do as he asks. Can't believe I walked into this. I must be rusty at all this grunt work, all this ground level stuff. He just looked so friendly and he comes recommended, so what could possibly go wrong, hm? So yeah. Yeah, I sit down. He's got a gun, of course I fecking sit down. It's actually a good thing because with my arse in a chair I can't exactly be kicking myself.

Darcy sits opposite on the edge of the bed.

"Look, I've no intention of doing you any harm. But if we don't have the drawings, all we have is the story, and it needs to be exclusive."

"…_No_, sorry, you've lost me."

"Good," he says. Straight, matter of fact. "All the better for you. But Dani's under the impression you might know too much, so you're staying here until we're a bit more certain of our position. That's all it is."

I half-understand. Danielle told me that the painting was the key, that the drawings were what MI5 was so murderously afraid of. So there's some information contained therein. If they don't have them physically, they'll still know what it said. It's far more dangerous for them, but there's a degree of leverage there and when you have absolutely nothing, any little scrap will do. And I, apparently, know too much. I could ruin everything by spilling the story early. I'd end up dead, certainly, but it would be public and messy and then everyone would know. Knowledge is only ever worth anything when it's privileged. When it's exclusive.

"Is this something to do with who your parents were?"

"Please, mate. The less you know the better. She doesn't want you hurt, but if we have to, I'm not going to hesitate. I'll tell you that now and be honest about it."

And strangely, it's almost as though I was right. He _is_ a straightforward kind of fella. You _could_ have a decent, normal discussion with him or, and which is even rarer, just talk to him. Even now while I'm sitting here at his mercy he offers me a drink, and is convivial enough to drink first. When he doesn't immediately choke and die foaming at the mouth, I deign to join him.

"Heard about Steele," he says, making conversation. "That was good. Massive favour, mate."

"Don't mention it. That's what I do… Sort of…"

"No, really. That sort of thinking, steps and steps ahead, that's a skill, that is."

And having once been self-effacing already, it would be unseemly of me to deflect the compliment again. I'm forced to accept. And try not to glow too much that somebody's _actually_ being nice.

Don't feel sorry for Danielle, by the way; she doesn't count. Her idea of 'nice' is _not_ the same as mine.

Skilful old me. There are definitely worse people to be held hostage by.


	31. Buttons:Cinderella

_Jim_

This is _almost_ not ridiculous. Jon Darcy's a solid, straightforward fella who knows well how to keep a reluctant hostage. He makes conversation, he keeps the drinks flowing. I'm free to move about the room provided I don't try to leave it. So long as I treat him respectfully he treats me likewise. This what Danielle didn't get; if she would have stopped kicking and spitting for any given ten minute stretch, we could have been friends.

Darcy? I've known Darcy half an hour and I'm contemplating how to invite him into the organization. Good hitters are so hard to come by, and experience counts when it comes to the political jobs. You just can't get people like him.

"So is it Darcy or Moran?" I say, when the talk dies down. "The Yanks were saying Darcy, but Danielle called you Moran."

"She shouldn't have."

"Well, she was under a great deal of stress at the time." Opera. Rifles. Running. Maybe I won't tell this close, defensive friend of hers about some of that stuff, not just right away. "I just find it odd that she referred to you by mother's maiden name. And your ma and her da were both MI6 agents. And were both murdered. And those same boys put you two disparate souls on the same job and then tried to kill you. I don't have a connection in mind, but I know it's there."

"Look, will you stop pushing this, please? I can't tell you anything."

"I've got news for you, Jon Darcy-Moran; they have their own assassins. Granted they wouldn't have done half so fine a job as you did, but they would have gotten the bullet into the brain and that's what counts. What'd they need you for?" He necks a shot of Jack from the bottle and won't look at me, gets up and goes to the window. The blinds are down, but he peers out the sides. Come back and save me, Dani, take this madman away, please, he _knows_ things. "Of course, you didn't ask yourself that question. It would have prevented all of this. And you don't seem to me like the kind to get flattered. Too sensible for that. I have too much respect for you to say that-"

"-The fuck are you on about, mate?"

"No, you did this for your country. Poor sod, you were happy to serve. And what did they do? They turned round and-"

Sudden, turning on me, he bellows, "I couldn't give two shits about my country!" It's real, passionate. I shut the fuck up. He realizes he's been too loud, drawn attention to himself. Comes away from the window and paces it off, twice up and down the room. Sits again on the edge of the bed; "I couldn't care one cunt-hair less if I _tried_ about my fucking country… I did it because…" He lingers, but he's not even thinking about me. If I prod, he'll think I'm fishing and I'll lose him again. I just keep silent. "…_Fuckers_ said that bastard King was the one had my mum done in, innit? Her and Arthur Mies and Auggie Gilè, all of them."

"…Why would an African president kill two Brits and a painter?"

With a sigh, he remembers his limits and swigs again. "Same reason you better stop asking questions."

Because they knew too much.

I told you there was another part of this story.

Darcy and Dani never questioned why they were being given this opportunity for vengeance. The kind of people they are, the businesses they're in, they thought they understood. The security services might like everything cold and professional, but a soldier and a thief would have a much better grasp of how powerful the personal can be.

Danielle, under normal circumstances, would probably never have attempted such a rich and open collection as the National Gallery. But that was personal.

Personal makes you dangerous. Makes you angry. Which can go one of two ways and maybe get you caught. But when you're officially sanctioned? Angry, dangerous, personal, that makes you effective. They thought that way and MI6 knew that. They never questioned it. They just took the obvious quid pro quo and did the job.

"You've been fucked from every _possible_ angle, haven't you, Jon?"

"The whores of Amsterdam," he says, with witty, elegant gravity, "would blush, sir."

Dull laughter, sympathetic quiet.

Then he checks his watch, and I must say, I'm thinking the same thing; Danielle should have checked in by now.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

"Dani." Gently patting her face as she starts to come round. "Danielle, wake up. Get up and get dressed." She wakes as if from a deep sleep, wide-eyed and unsure of herself. I throw her her top and she grabs it. Only then does it start to come back to her. She curses me in three different languages while she dresses, while her eyes creep about, looking for Darcy's gun, for the carving knife, for a blunt object. I've still got the violin, you see. Outright attack is no longer an option, with that between us. The thing itself seems to elicit an odd, fearful reverence from her, even without being played. When I nod her towards the metal kitchen chair, she doesn't move. When I point with the bow, she follows it. Sits down, allows her hands to be tied. Only loosely, only a precaution so she'll keep them to herself. But, I tell her, "This time we're going to talk, like sensible grown up people do."

"Sounds dull," she sighs. "And very slow. You'll get tired talking to yourself."

"We'll see about that. That was very well done, by the way, getting rid of the neighbours like that. Tell me, Danielle, has there ever been anything you couldn't buy with sex?"

"…If I fuck you, will you give me back the drawings?"

"No."

"Then yeah, yeah there has."

"Well, that and your freedom from your current situation, I suppose."

"You got Tony Blair's number? I'll try anything once, me."

"I know a man who might."

"Oh, then hook me up. I won't need the drawings."

"They must be good. If they match up to having the prime minister in your pocket."

"What a lovely way to put it, 'Pocket'… Yes, I quite like that."

"I want you to tell me about the drawings, Dani."

She laughs. Comes right out and laughs at me, creased up, shaking with it, folding forward. I'm not rising to it, of course. I know exactly what she's doing. Trying to make me feel ridiculous, edgy, so I'll miss something. Well, she can keep trying. All I do is look on until she's quite finished, until she cranes her neck to look up at me from beneath her brows. "You really haven't thought this through, Jeremy, my love." I lift up the violin, and though she shies from it, curls away from me, she does manage one more sick little bark of laughter; "Go ahead. It'll be a pain, but I can take a hit. Almost as well as you can, I can take a hit. And I can last a hell of a lot longer than you."

"And how do you add that one up?"

"Because you are," and here she pauses, and her eyes run me over in humiliating detail. Every lump she left me with, every scratch, every bruise, the slight left-handed lean where I honestly do think she might have broken a rib. And then, even through a shirt sleeve, up the insides of my arms. The whites of my eyes. The tremor in my hands. Then continues, "-_maybe_ an hour from having to go out and score, love. And what then for your little hostage, hm?"

"Well, I'll just put you under again."

"Not if I'm expecting you. Not the way you play. No offence, Renaissance Junkie, but you're no Hillary Hahn. No, you caught me off guard before, but I'm ready for you now."

"Whoever said anything about music?"

The cat's been prowling around throughout, and now hops up into her lap, nuzzles its face beneath her chin. "The big strong junkie's going to hit me, Treadstone. And to think I would have left you with him. To think I thought we were friends, him and I. No such thing as good knights, are there, gorgeous? No such thing as a pure, brave heart."

I don't know any more if she's talking to the cat, or to me. It hardly seems to matter.

"The story in the drawings, Danielle. Is it true?"

"What sort of a story? A fairy tale? I like fairy tales. Regale me, Mr Rathbone."

Trying to waste time, waiting me out. "You know the story I mean."

"What? Cinderella? I've already heard that one. Very much back in my pumpkin state, now. Go on, I'll start you off; _Once upon a time_-"

"This is really very irritating, Danielle-"

"-_In a galaxy far, far away-_"

"-Stop it and we can talk properly-"

"-_There lived a handsome, multi-skilled, duplicitous fucking junkie-"_

"Stop saying that!" And before I quite know what's happened, I've raised up the violin bow and brought it down across her face. It whistles like a blade, turns her head away with the force. What begins as a line of lily white from ocular orbit to jawbone splits even as I look on and bleeds in a single perfect line. "I… I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Once upon a time," she says again. Not turning her head back yet. Not looking at me. And when I don't immediately respond, "_Once upon a _fucking_ time_, Jeremy."


	32. Upper Hand:Dead Man's Hand

_Sherlock_

Mies used to think I was going to help her. She doesn't anymore. I've messed that up and I didn't even mean to. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I want to tell her that. I want her to know that I'm still, to all intents and purposes, on her side, that _she_ was the one who brought violence into this, that none of this was meant to happen, but as soon as I open my mouth she cuts in; "Could you get this fucking blood off my face, please?" I go about fetching a damp cloth. Behind me, she continues, "I can't tell you anything."

"You don't have to. I'll lay it out and you just say yes or no, alright?"

"You're safer if you just forget everything. I'll take the drawings, walk away and you'll never ever hear about any of this again."

"Well, that wouldn't make a very good ending either."

"You could be killed, you know. And I don't mean by me and Darcy."

"You're awfully good to be concerned about me."

"_I_ could be killed. _I_ am much safer if you know nothing." That's closer to the truth. I lean down with the cloth and start to clean off the wound. She winces, but without sound. As if I'm taking some pleasure in this and she wants to deny me. It's been a long time since she felt safe in any way. "But you don't give a shit, do you? You couldn't give a toss so long as you get your mystery. Darcy told me about you. You met him first. You told him outright that you knew people with power at Vauxhall. This is all just a distraction for you, this is _my fucking life_!" She shouldn't shout. It strains the opening on her face and she cries, turns her head away from me as if that makes a difference.

I stay close, holding the cloth up to the bleeding. And I start quietly, because some of the things she said are true, but it changes nothing. "In the late 1970s, MI6 helped put Nkwambe King in power. The agents responsible were Arthur Mies and Elizabeth Moran. In 1995, you posed for a painting by Auguste Gilè and by September of that year, Moran, Gilè _and_ your father were all dead. The sketches, the notes, the painting, that's why they're dead." With the thumb of my free hand, I catch a tear before the salt can hit the wound. "Confirm or deny, Danielle."

"No idea what you're talking about."

"Who killed your father, Dani? King or Crown?"

"Fuck you, don't talk about him, don't you _dare_ talk about him. Where's yours? Does he know what you are? I'm sure he's bloody proud of what he spurted into this world, I bet he doesn't regret that one bit!"

For once, I hate the fact that I've found a raw nerve. For once it doesn't feel like a discovery. I've just hurt her.

"I never knew him," I tell her honestly. "My brother did; he's older. But you're right, I'm sure he'd be most disappointed. He died naturally, though. As naturally as possible, for one so young. Heart attack. And so far as I know, he died happy. Fat and happy and with love. It's a good thing to know when you're thinking about it, and I do sometimes. Who took that knowledge away from you, Danielle?"

Too long of a pause.

She steels. Isn't fighting tears anymore. They're just not there.

She answers, "Danielle Mies, thief, 07754994-"

"What are you doing?"

"Name, rank and number, you bastard."

She could do this for days. That much suddenly crystallizes for me. And neither of us has days to give to this, so I have to move things along. It's going to mean giving up the leverage, but it's the best chance I have.

I go to the bookshelves. The last rack, the one she didn't get to. "Told you you were warmer, didn't I?" An old catalogue, a collection book, from the National Gallery. The drawings are folded page by page inside. Danielle doesn't laugh. She gets the joke, it just doesn't amuse her.

I'm going to tell her everything she already knows. And when she sees that it's too late to keep anything from me, she'll tell me that I'm right, and she'll tell me how it ends. "1994, Goganye goes to totally unjustified war with the neighbours over resources. Mies and Moran, being the people who put King in the presidency, get nervous. If he mentions Britain, they'll be publicly crucified to save face. So they protect themselves. They put the true story right out in front of the whole world, hidden in plain sight; Auguste Gilè paints _The Lady and The Tiger _on their behalf."

It's all there. Nkwambe King as the barbarous tyrant.

There's a Union Jack hidden in the stripes of the rampant tiger.

The young man being torn apart, quite aside from bearing a distinct resemblance to Arthur Mies, is wearing a Naval uniform. When they paraded Mies and Moran as the evil perpetrators, he would have been presented in his best.

King gives the order and Britain tears open the relative innocent.

The drawings, the notes, they explain these details as part of the whole. A real conspiracy.

And then, to top it all, the real threat is the girl in the foreground. The princess can do nothing but watch but she sees it all. Knows it all.

That's where I really have her. That's where I can get Danielle to finally look me in the eye again. When I tell her that she knew the whole story long before this all came out.

"You _and_ Darcy," I tell her. "Somehow you knew everything. That's why you were a threat."

She has to swallow nausea so she can nod down at the drawings. Says, matter-of-factly, "You're fucked. Same as the rest of us. Your friend at the top had better be _right_ at the top, or you are just as dead as the rest of us."

"Not really. I've got the drawings."

She contemplates a head-butt and decides against it. Her face is too sensitive, it won't have the power. Then thinks about standing, picking up the chair behind her and swinging it into me, but then again, that's still not the knockout blow she would need to get the drop on me. You can see all this work in her head and it only takes a second or two. This, fortunately, is enough time for me to pick up the violin again. Four half-remembered bars of Prokofiev and she relaxes, begs me to stop.

Art and music and Auguste Gilè. I'm holding all the cards. The question is how long I can hold onto them when the craving kicks in.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

It's been almost two hours. What started out as a mean little kidnap has descended into an amiable, low stakes poker game. I've got a pair of twos and an ace and I'm hopeful. But Darcy's looking at his watch again, and he's still right. Danielle can show up or me and him can keep drinking; something's got to give and we both know it.

"I can't phone her," he says, before I even ask. "What if she's in the middle of the fucking thing?"

"Then she won't answer." He knew that. But I heard the way she spoke to him. This has nothing to do with interrupting a theft; he's scared of what he's going to find out. "Well, do you mind if I call her then? Because I'm halfway to pissed and we'll be no good to her if something _is_ wrong."

Shouldn't have said the word 'wrong'. He swallows like he's sick, draws the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yeah, go ahead…"

Nothing's going to be wrong. She'll be waiting for her moment, poised on a gargoyle somewhere like Batgirl, ready to drop herself down to another unwitting window. And some poor smug sod will wake up in the morning and find his precious leverage torn away. Everything will be back on track. The Americans will have been routed by this time tomorrow. End of the weekend, Mies and Darcy will be safe and, if they still really, really want to, gone.

It rings, and it rings, and it fecking rings, until Jon Darcy puts his head down in his hands.

Finally there's a click and the line connects.

"Hello?"

Not her. Man's voice. Some posh fucking twat with a smile on his face. Darcy doesn't hear it but he sees me react. He hears, "Who is this? Where's Danielle?"

"Miss Mies can't come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?"

"Who _the fuck_ is this?"

"More to the point, who's this? I was expecting Jon Darcy to call, and you are not he." And he leans away from the phone, addressing somebody in the room with him, "Quite the little stable you've built up for yourself. Collecting white knights are we?"

From the background, her voice is only just there, "You have _no_ idea."

"Put her on."

"Not until you tell me-" Who I am, he's going to say, but Danielle cuts him off. Shouts out that I'm nobody, that I'm not involved. That I don't know what he knows, whatever that's supposed to mean. "Oh, very well, then… Dani, say hello so I can get rid of him."

I put her on speaker for Darcy's benefit. He'd be tearing his hair out if his head wasn't shaved… Her voice soothes him. "Alright, love? I take it you found my _white knight_, then."

"He's been most hospitable."

"Isn't he lovely? Sorry about all the precautions."

Jon leans over there, speaks directly into the phone. "Dani, love, lady or tiger?"

"Oh, lady, darling. Don't you worry about me." And he gives me a nod, then, that seems to imply that this means she's safe, that we can let go and relax. He stops looking so terrified, thank God. There's something about seeing strong people afraid that always makes me nervous. Unless I've made them that way. Obviously. That's quite a good thing, when that happens. "He's taking the phone away now. I think I've unnerved him a bit. Just hang tight, I'll be with you by morning."

Whoever he is, her captor, he doesn't even bother to say goodbye. Just hangs up. I mean, what do you expect of a rude bastard like that anyway? This'll be the mental case that picked her up when she didn't even have any shoes. I'm telling you, perverts and madmen, the world's full of them. And you can just imagine the look on the prick's face when she told us she was coming back. I can anyway, and it makes me smile. Not least because I know _exactly_ how the fucker feels and I'm glad to have it inflicted on him.

Darcy laughs. Just breathily, just once; relief more than amusement.

"So what does 'lady or tiger' mean?"

"Well, in that case there, 'Lady' meant she was in charge, that she'd make it alright by herself. 'Tiger' would have meant she needed me."

You can tell from the way he says it, from the slight smile, something I've suspected all night. They've been playing this game for years. They knew each other long before Africa. Grew up together, more than likely. The parents meet for drinks and little Jon and Dani get left in a sitting room, watching telly, making up games, telling stories. Maybe he sees her when he's home for holidays from whatever posh boarding school. Maybe when he's a teenager she writes naughty letters and sends them to him there. Not because she feels that way, but because it makes him cool. He goes to the army and she starts robbing museums so they go their separate ways. Cryptic Christmas cards when you can't explain what it is you're really doing for a living. They lose touch a bit. And then they show up on the same job. The same offer. The same dead parents and the old dream team back together again.

I put all of this to him, and he nods at some parts, laughs at others.

And when I get to the end he tells me Goganye, before it all went balls-in-the-air, was the best fun he'd had in a lot of years.

That's quite a good thing to hear, especially as his eventual job offer goes. You can't beat a man who treats a very, very difficult assassination as a nice weekend away. This just doesn't cross your path every day. A man in my line of work can't be turning his nose up at serendipity like this. "So," I say, "Not to jinx you or anything, but on the off-chance we pull this off and-"

"'We'?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm in this now, fuck's sake. That's if you'll have me."

"After Steele? You can take my fucking sister out if you want…"

"No. Thanks all the same. But yeah, anyway, _theoretically_, you get out of this, right? What's the plan after that?"

Jon Darcy explains, calm and collected, that even should he survive he's still lost. He won't have the army he's always had, he's got no family to speak of, bar that sister who, he claims, won't have him around. His only real thought was to go away and try again somewhere. He's got enough Chinese to set himself up out in Hong Kong, but he's not sure what he'd do with it.

"Private security."

"Background checks, mate. Either they know who I am and they find out about this, or I use a false name and they shunt me for having nothing to back it up."

"Not in Hong Kong."

He looks up. Gets it right away, yes, and is thinking about it. But he shakes his head and turns his eyes to the floor again. "Ask me again if I live." And as if to punctuate, a whore screams downstairs, and a man is shouting, and then a round is fired from a handgun and all hell sounds out below. "Fuck's sake… What were you saying about jinxes?"


	33. Four Americans:One Junkie

_Jim_

It's the Americans, and they've just shot the concierge. Darcy's looking at me funny, but he knows I couldn't have brought them here. No way they would have held off so long, and anyway, he's had it from Mies what I did to their boss. So it's something else, but he's not ready to speak to it yet. That's absolutely fine by me. He can tear my head off if he wants, so long as he consents to do it later and away from here, and takes me elsewhere to do it. I'll take my chances with one decent man over a pack of military bastards out for vengeance any day.

"You're a soldier. Until recently you were defending very important items. You've got an alternate exit strategy." I say that. Matter of fact, no, I _tell_ him that. These are facts, things which are true and cannot be otherwise.

Darcy squares himself with the door, checking the clip in his gun. Sort of winces, screwing his nose up, starts to shake his head-

"_What do you mean you don't really_?"

"The point was not to be found. Nobody was supposed to get this far."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Look, we chose the place no one would look."

"Because nobody thought you'd be fucking daft enough to hide somewhere with one way out!"

"_You're_ being facetious, but the first time somebody said that it sounded like a really good idea."

"So what's the plan?"

"I'll give you a clue; it's about the length of a sub sandwich, made of steel with custom decals and I'm pointing it at the door."

Well, that's comforting. That's just great. He has no idea how many of them there are, where they're positioned, what their plan of attack is, and his counter-argument is to shoot it out. Now me, sitting here with nothing better to offer, I can't really say anything but _surely there must be a better fucking plan than this_. I'm not an expert on impromptu urban military guerrilla strategy, but if this was it, there wouldn't be _any_ experts on impromptu urban military guerrilla strategy.

"…Danielle will be really annoyed if I die; I think she wants that privilege for herself. She keeps telling me so. You don't want to be responsible for taking that away from her."

"Just stay close behind me."

I do. As fucking bonkers as the plan might be, behind the man with the gun is usually a safe place to be. He's firing bullets, for one and, worst comes to worst, he'll be absorbing them too.

But I start to see very quickly why the lack of back door wasn't annoying him more than it was.

Over his shoulder I watch him pop off two shots at a time, quick, controlled bursts. He gets the scouting lead at the top of the stairs. The rest shout when he falls and by the sounds he has them located. He gets another two before he even moves any further, firing into the corners where the stairs curve around.

There's one more and the fucker gets smart and hides.

And do you know what, maybe I'll just stay up here with the bodies. I'll keep an eye out. I'll stand watch while Darcy creeps down, edging along, stair by stair, testing his weight. And when the return shot finally rings out, it lands in the wall. He ducks forward, not back, slams side on into the corner and just fucking _aces_ this fella while he's still _looking_ for him.

There's a moment's perfect, OK Corral silence.

Darcy leans back around the banister, searching me out. "You coming or what?"

And suddenly those are bodies and that's blood creeping towards my shoes and oh my God, there are four former men scattered about each with two holes in his skull and all the liquidy bits flooding out from inside, _oh my god_, he's done that, hasn't he? _He's_ done that. Just now. And I was standing here… Oh my _God_…

Top man.

"Certainly, Jon, right behind you."

I start to turn up the collar of my coat. Then he shoots out the camera over the front desk and I just don't bother.

_Top_ fecking man…

But the second he gets to the street, he's lost again. No idea where to go next. Thankfully, though, this is my area. I lead off, fast as possible, in any old direction before the cops arrive and get on the phone. Hugo mentioned this too, said Danielle was the one who called him about the passports. Darcy can take care of business, no doubt about that, but he can't take great care of himself. They would have picked him off while he was trying to hide in Goganye. He wouldn't have hidden, in fact, he would have run, and the thing about a man running away from you is you can shoot him pretty handy in the back. And I'm sure he exchanged a bit of fire in Danielle's defence or they would have had her and all.

By the time we get to the end of the road, there's a car on its way to meet us. Three corners later, when it's waiting at the kerb, we've got a place to go. Safe house I use occasionally for visiting operatives.

In the back seat, Darcy looks at me and says, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. I told you before, it's what I do."

"Yeah. You said. Driver a friend of yours?" The driver eyes me in the mirror and shakes his head. He got a call and was told where to be and to be there five minutes ago. Darcy says, "Good," and I feel the muzzle of the gun press against my side. "See the next time you're leaving a place behind? Remember to turn off your fucking computer, won't you mate?"

"…Beg your pardon?"

"The Americans never would have found me in that hotel room."

Treadstone's collar. "_Shite_."

"Don't worry. Keep that between us, shall we?"

Like I say, top man…

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

"My face needs stitches and you need opiates. Let's just go to the hospital." She keeps doing this. Obviously she's getting desperate for terms. She's worked through score, hit, junk, skag, dragon, mud, sweet and heroin and now she's down to _opiates_. Very crude strategy, really; she thinks she can make it hurt more and faster if she keeps reminding me, if it's all I'm thinking of. _Very_ crude indeed, totally unimpressive. Not much of a strategy at all, really. A thought experiment which is far, far beneath her.

And the most irritating thing about it? It may be very well be working.

It's actually quite hard to tell. I might just be hitting the craving quite hard because of the recent beating, the need for numbness, the stress of even having her here, all the running. Because I've had a long and strange and difficult day and just because I had a shot this afternoon doesn't mean I don't deserve another one. Quite aside from the physical dependency, about which there's very little I myself can do right now, I think I've earned a little respite and relaxation.

"Look at you," she continues. "You're shaking. Sweating too, poor lamb. Why would you let this go on? You should medicate. It's just not sensible, if you're sick and you can _stop_ it." I try taking up the violin bow, but she's right about the shaking. She's right about the sickness, and it hurts. "Don't be petty, Jeremy. Go out and score. Otherwise you're going to end up curled crying in the corner. Either way, I escape. Just go. At least then you get out of this with a scrap of dignity."

It's not going to work. I understand what she's doing, and therefore it's lost all power. That's how it works. Once you understand something, you beat it.

So why can't I play her into submission then? I tried the Gallery catalogue, but I can't make her keep her eyes open.

"If you're not going to listen to sense, could I at least trouble you to put something cold on my face? If I can keep the swelling down there's less chance of a large, permanent facial scar."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd turn that into an advantage, somehow…" I am, however, fetching ice. Wrapping it up in the damp cloth from before. "You'd play the broken woman. Or you'd play the mysterious stranger. You'd play, it's what you do. It's what you _thought_ you'd do with me."

"And we could have had such fun."

"What?"

"Well," she says, just as I put the compress to the wound, "no harm, no foul, right? I play the game to help myself, and you would have enjoyed the ride. Who loses if I'm lying?"

I open my mouth to answer and she kisses me. Which seems like a bit of a desperate move, if she thinks all she has to do is wait. It's deep and thorough and I don't have a choice. Her lips are warm and firm. However much I don't want it, the tip of her tongue is natural and precise in seeking out mine. I put my hand to her neck to move her away, but she's tied down and I'm trying to cool her face so there's nowhere to move her to. And when I try to pull back she holds my lower lip to hers with her teeth, mutters, "I wasn't lying when I said I liked your face."

"_Get_ off," and I pull away by force. My lip bleeds, but I spill the ice over her in the process.

"That was the general idea. The endorphins would do you good, y'know."

Yes, they would. That's about the last thing I hear with any clarity. That part she predicted, with me curled up on the floor, that's just become imminent. This is me leaning on the worktop trying to stay upright, listening to her, her making some joke I don't understand that she keeps making men sick… And shuffling, too. I said before, I only tied her loosely. And I hear half a sentence cut out of the rest of the world, "Can dislocate my thumbs, you know…" The rest I miss. It comes on sudden. I've been too busy with her to notice the usual signs. There's been no boredom, no counting except to keep time in the music. I would owe her for that, but we'll just take it as payment towards the beating, shall we? Or for the break in or the hassle or the fact that she hasn't told me anything. We'll figure it out afterward. We'll settle up when I'm not dying.

"Is withdrawal like it is in films? Like Trainspotting. Do you hallucinate, Jeremy?" She's not in the chair anymore. She's right at my ear. And it's now that I realize she could have gotten up at any time. "You really didn't think this through, did you? You should get off that shit; it's making a fool of you."

Her hands settle quietly, soft as leaves, on my shoulders. I shrug her off the first time. The effort brings on empty, gasping heaves from my empty stomach. Missed all the easy, introductory sickness and fell straight into this, and it wrenches my internal organs like two fists turning back on themselves. The second time I feel her hands, I go where she guides me. Out beyond the living room. Through the bedroom door. Danielle puts me down on the edge of the bed, helps me out of my shoes, out of my shirt. Eases me back against the pillows, pulls the sheet over me. And I _let_ her, I just _let _her, for God's sake. This brutal, wicked _bitch_ and I just _allow_ all of this to happen. I can't fight her.

"Apart from the obvious," she says, "Is there anything that'll help?" It's all I can do to shake my head. Apart from the obvious I don't _want_ anything, whether it'll help or not. "Anyone I can call?" Between great torques of nausea I tell her just to bring the phone and just _leave_.

She's gone an awfully long time. But she comes back with the drawings, shielded in a less offensive book, held to her chest. Puts the phone down by my hand. The decorated gun in the back of her jeans. Her cat following along at her heels. She leaves with everything she brought and everything she came for.

And leaves something else at the end of the bed. Most likely something dramatic, a message of some sort. I won't crane up to see what it is, I won't give her the satisfaction. I could care less. But when I hear the front door close I turn my head around, push down the covers.

The violin bow. With the hair cut in two, and coiling back from either end.

Yes, Danielle, I get it. I got it before the wilful destruction of property. You win. You won hours ago. Even when you were unconscious, you were wasting my time. I get it. There's no need to take it out on the instrument.

I'm calling Mycroft, by the way. It's a terribly low blow, but then I'm at a terribly low ebb.

Who's fucked now, Danielle? Who's as good as dead now?


	34. Waiting:Stuck

_Sherlock_

Mycroft doesn't come right away. He doesn't even answer the message right away. He leaves me to fester. I could still be in immediate danger and he leaves me here. Honestly, so long as I'm not embarrassing him or useful to him, I'd never see him. Fine. Let him. While she gets farther and farther away let him think he's teaching me a lesson and no more. I'll wait out this first wave of cramps and shakes, then peel myself up and finally score when I'm good and ready. If he's not here by then, to hell with him. I'll go away again, get far from this flat that never brings anything but pain and trouble. But I'll give him until then. I'm gracious like that.

After one fashion or another it's always been this way. He always made me wait and I always waited. Home from school for the holidays and Mother would say, "Take your brother into town," and I'd sit at the bottom of the stairs. He'd never have anything to do. Summer holidays, children, what could he possibly have had to do? But he'd make me wait. Just to prove that he could, that he was in charge, that he had control. All these years and it's the same. I'm still waiting and he's still proving a bloody point.

I compose another message; 'Need you'. But I don't like the sound of that one. I compose it over again as 'Urgent'. Still not right. I try again as 'Liar'. Then I don't send anything at all.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Danielle calls by morning, like she promised. In fact, it's before morning. Morning is no more than a gold and teal threat on the far horizon.

"I'm outside the hotel and it's covered in cops and tape and bodies and other not-comforting things-"

"We're out." Her relief is palpable. "Just walk south, straight down Greek Street. I'm sending someone to pick you up."

"Yeah, he really can't miss me…"

"Call when he gets you."

I hang up and Darcy asks if she's alright, and when I say it sounds like she's taken another beating, he asks if I gave her the first one. And I know him now, so I feel alright to admit it. And to ask, too, why I was important. Mies came and took me hostage, and said it was because she thought I'd grassed. But you look at the two of them and their situation, and I'm not sure there's actually been much thought at all for petty personal vengeances of late. If Goganye went down the way they said, they've probably learned their lesson about that and all.

"Persons of interest," Darcy explains. "You set up the Gallery job, not Hugo Tudor. She got that much off him. So we presumed you were on the persons of interest list. It's a-"

"-A group of people known to the authorities. Not personally dangerous, and too well-connected or too clever to take on, but kept on the radar. I know what it is. I'm not on it."

"You keep too far out of things. She figured that out as she went. But at first it seemed like a good idea. Kidnap you, inflict some damage your way. That's how we were going to get spotted by MI5 but not the Americans, enter into the right negotiations after the National went all wrong. Then we realized that wasn't happening and I thought I'd found the right fella for a go-between anyway. She was pulling out when you pulled your stunt with the Caravaggio. She's very jealous, by the way; who'd you use for that job?"

"The security wasn't great; I blackmailed a nobody. Safer."

So I was never special. I was never an informer, but I was never special either. It wasn't attention, wasn't interest. Nothing but self-preservation. People use people. I told you this before. That's what makes the world go around. Nothing strange there, nothing to be ashamed of. They were just taking care of themselves.

And then it happens again; that thing where Darcy looks at his watch at just the moment where I think, Yeah, she should have called by now.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Mycroft arrives and lets himself in, just as I'm starting to get up. I hear him tut and sigh his way across the wrecked living room and lie back down. "Sherlock, who's blood is this, please?"

"Bit of both," I call back. My voice hardly seems my own; warbling, very far away.

Then he appears in the door, and actually reels to look me over. "Looks like she did quite some number on you."

"Nothing that wasn't repaid in kind."

"Mmh, I saw…"

A moment to put it together and I roll my face into the pillow. "You saw. You were watching. You knew she'd come back here-"

"And lead us to Darcy when she left. Our very best are right behind her now."

"They've lost her," I tell him. Knowing what I know of her, and of his very best, they've lost her.

All this time, I'm waiting. Waiting for the shallow little prick (to be delivered by the shallow little prick) to send sickly, half-effective methadone worming its dissatisfying way to my brain. All this time I'm waiting and it's not coming. Eventually I roll back up from the pillows and he's not got anything in his hands, not loading anything up, not even carrying the horrible little black case. Surely he doesn't intend for me to suffer? Surely not…

He doesn't even mention it. Just starts studying the bruises on my face, my collarbone, the awkward angle I have to hold myself at because of the damaged ribs. "I did try to warn you. Mies and Darcy are dangerous individuals, and they're cornered. Damaged." Like tigers. Darcy told me all about sick and dying tigers.

"Mycroft, don't kill them. Or let them be killed."

"I'm afraid they're leaving us rather little choice."

"Oh, yes, because the world was their oyster to begin with…"

"You know nothing of this."

I'm about to tell him just how much I _do_ know exactly, but that would be the sickness talking. That would be the mistakes that craving makes, not me. Me, I'm going to hold on to my privileged information until it's best use to me. But there's a moment of stalemate where he knows I want to speak and says nothing, waiting for me to hang myself. Thankfully the ring of his mobile breaks it open.

"Hello?" Oh, this one he answers right away. This one makes him angrier than I could possibly tell you, too, and he goes all red from the collar up, which is never not fun to watch. "_What_? How?" I told you they'd lost her. "And the drawings?" He doesn't get the answer he's looking for there, either, and hisses, "_Idiots_… Find her. Find her _now_!"

All of this I could have told him five minutes ago.

Where he deviates from the prediction is in coming back to the bedside and asking me, honestly, earnestly, "Who else is after them, Sherlock? Did she tell you anything? About Covent Garden, even, about who fired the shots?"

"What? Mies only seemed interested in MI5…"

"Well, it is certainly _not_ MI5 that currently have possession of the woman…" He stands again, clearly distressed; even runs a hand through his hair and _moves_ it, for heaven's sake. "I'll send someone to get a proper look at you. I have to go."

"But-"

But he's leaving me to suffer, isn't he? He's leaving me here sick because he thinks it'll keep me here. Brother dear, so concerned for my safety that he'd let me rot here, turning over and over in my own sickness, just to keep me out of his bloody business. And he goes, just leaves me here, abandoned. He'll send a doctor, will he? Well, there'll be nothing to find. I'm enough in charge to walk. Just about. Enough to get out of here anyway, and unlike him, I know where to find Darcy.

One step up, Mycroft. You always kept me waiting because I was always one step up already.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

"I should have gone to get her," Darcy is saying, pacing again, walking it off.

"She shouldn't be allowed out, you mean…" Woman can't go ten minutes without getting hit, kidnapped or pissing somebody off.

When there finally is a call, it's from our driver. He can't find her and he's circled the area three times now. But he doesn't think he's the only one who's looking. I ask him to pull one of the others and find out what sort of an accent they've got. He stops like he's asking for directions and the terse, irritated answer comes back in upper class British.

"The Yanks," I tell Darcy. "The last of them have her."

He panics a bit too easily sometimes. He starts gabbling, running off on one about how we don't know where to _find_ those people, about how Danielle could be in a shipping crate at the airport already and they're just holding on for him now, about how we haven't exactly given them reason to be kind and respectful with her.

"Shut up," I tell him, sharply. And he glares at me like he wants to throw a punch, but he does, in fact, shut up. "And sit your arse down somewhere, you're making me dizzy." And again with the desire to punch me, but again he does it. Soldiers, you see; they love orders. Not always the people _giving_ them, but _orders, _orders are love to these people. Go over there, march like an eejit, Iraqis are bad, go and kill this big important fella who's about to turn on us. Sit down and shut the fuck up. _Orders_. "That's a bit better, mate. Don't you feel a bit fucking calmer when you're not wearing a hole in the fucking carpet?"

No response. Still glaring. That's alright, though, I've been glared at before. Glaring I can sort of manage.

"Theoretically, if you knew where to find the bastards, you could mount a rescue?"

"Fucking right, I could. Christ knows I owe her that much after the rest of this week. Be an honour and fucking privilege to knock these fuckers down-"

He'd rant on about them, but I raise a hand. And he stops, most politely follows the order to stop. "Do you think you trust me enough to let me go and find out, then? Because I think I probably can but I don't need to be drawing any attention to myself in the process."

Darcy stops glaring. Looks down at his feet instead and says, almost sadly, "Keeps happening, doesn't it? Me sitting about and everybody else in fucking trouble."

"It didn't happen at the hotel."

"I'm a hitter, mate, it's all I'm good for."

"Yeah, and when I put an address on the cunts holding Danielle, it's all you fucking need to be."

In retrospect, that probably wasn't the best thing to say. But it does the trick. The slow, constant headshake turns to a nod. He gets up, crosses the room to me and puts out a hand. Down in my pocket I feel my fingers claw back on themselves, tense and cold and trembling just a little bit. Not right. Don't want to. Not right. But what else can I do? He's standing in front of me giving up, putting his life and the life of his only real friend in my hands, and he wants a handshake.

I take it. And tightly too, so he knows I mean it, that, for some god forsaken reason that probably doesn't even have anything to do with boredom anymore, I'm with them. He claps his other hand over the back of mine, which is frankly a bit much, if you want my opinion. Then he lets me go.

Better not fuck this up; by the feel of his handshake he could crush my skull in his fist, were he so inclined…


	35. Stupid People:Clever People

_Jim_

Back at the flat, and it only takes a few phone calls to find out where they took the body of Michael Steele. Unfortunately that's all I can find out over the phone because the police are a little bit funny about giving out information to civilians. I could sit here and think up some kind of alias, back it up, create the necessary support I'll need to make it stick, but that's a lot of work. That'll take longer. And I'm very aware that I'm on the clock.

The plan is to find out where Steele was hanging his hat whilst here in England. From there, there should be some connection to the rest of the Americans who, having been pretty much decimated tonight, are probably all involved in this last desperate kidnap. Find them, find Danielle, send Darcy, stand far enough back not to get any blood on my suit. Who needs months and months of detail work? Sometimes the simplest plans are the most effective.

All I need is access to his belongings. The ones he had on him at the time of death ought to do it. They took the body to St Barts. Best time to get down there would be during the autopsy, when the effects have been removed from the corpse but before the cops have come to pick them up and hear the gory (and, might I say, very clever) details.

I kept the driver. Alternately, he says he _missed_ Danielle, that he was too late and that the Americans were already there. None of these are good explanations. I think he believes he's fixing the last one with whatever one he spouts off next. He's not, they're just stacking up. He needs to stop talking, but I'm enjoying it too much to tell him so. I don't usually talk to cabbies or any kind of drivers. They unnerve me. Once those doors are locked, the fuckers could be taking me anywhere. But this one knows better and he's happy to ramble off his fear of me. It's rather calming, it helps get me through.

And the hospital?

The hospital is _easy_. These official places, the stupidest thing you can do is sneak about. Nah, good suit, purposeful walk, you go wherever you please. The patients take you for a consultant, the nurses take you for health-and-safety, surgeons and doctors take you for an outside man. Everybody hates you, nobody speaks, and you walk unchallenged directly downstairs to the morgue.

Where, because some days God just smiles upon you, the main man is out, and only his trainee is holding down the fort. Pretty little thing, wearing her sweetheart on her sleeve and her ponytail high. Easy pickings.

"What's the word on Michael Steele?" I say to her, as swift and forceful as I can manage. These little apprentices react almost as well to orders as soldiers do.

It's actually a bit of a surprise when she straightens her back, eyes me cautiously. "And you would be?"

Tough cookie, is she? Yeah, well, let's see her cope with the Met. "D.I. Jameson. And _you_, Miss?"

"Molly Hooper. Can I see some I.D.?"

"_Excuse me, Miss Hooper_?"

And yet, she's unfazed. "Your identification."

"You listen to me, Miss, I got pulled from dinner with the missus at Pied Á _fucking_ Terre to go to a _massacre_ in Soho. I haven't got fuck all with me and all I want to know is where we stand on Michael Steele, now if you wouldn't mind, my dear, could you wheel him out, please?"

"…A massacre?"

Bingo. Hello, Molly Hooper, the once and future coroner who fears the mention of multiple murders. Daft girl; this is her bread and butter. This isn't the job for a nice girl to stay nice in. "Four bodies," I tell her, and I let my voice get that hollow, lost sort of a noise about it. "All shot in the head. One man goes on some mental fecking _rampage_. Can't put it together at all."

"And Steele's got something to do with it?"

Silence is as good as acceptance. "Can you wheel him out please?"

Drawer number eight.

Good to see you again, Mick. How's things? Quiet? Well, sure, that's for the best. Can't be bad to a nice easy night, now can we? Sleep tight, Mick.

I take enough of a look at him to convince her.

"What about the belongings?"

Ten minutes later, I've got everything. I explain to her that the usual people will be over to pick up the bulk of it, but I need an address so we can continue our investigation as soon as possible.

I find notepaper from the Meliã White House at Regents Park with, disturbing enough, my address on it. So they're living in luxury on Goganye money, and in short they won't be operating out of the hotel. Silly boys. Plenty of places in London don't mind you torturing your hostages in the rooms, if you know where to look. I have people who specialize in it. I could have hooked them up. This is what happens when you come into a country not your own, that you don't know and where you're not connected. It's just a bad idea all around and you're all liable to end up dead.

But nobody ever listens to little old Jim now, do they? No, not mad old Jim, _he_ doesn't know _anything_.

Except how to get in and out of a hospital before the real cops and keep that one step ahead at all times, he's rather good at that.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

At the door of Hugo's, from beyond the grille, before they saw me properly, they laughed. Maybe the voice, maybe the shaking hand, but something about my need was terribly amusing. Then they opened the door to let me in and stopped laughing. That's how I know I must look worse than I ever have before; usually a beaten-up user is all those gentlemen need to send them off into demoniac gales. The silence is actually harder to ignore.

And upstairs, at the door of the back room, I actually stopped from outside and tried to knock my head against it, because I could hear a tinny, dead radio from within, and a mewling, tuneless singing. That's a way that people express frustration sometimes, the head knocking. Anyway, it hurt too much, so I was left with no choice but to let myself in and confront the source of that frustration.

Ruby.

"There are _eight_ of these places; why are we always in the same one?"

"Because you like this one and I was thinkin-" But at this she has turned right round and sees me, breathes out long, "The fuck happened to _you_?"

"Walked into a door."

"Done that myself a couple of times. Doors are bastards, ain't they?"

"God yes. Long story. You were saying?"

"Well, I was thinking, after you sort of… like… _saved_ me and all… Oh, Jesus, give that here-" This spoken of the spoon and lighter. My hand-eye coordination's not the best just at this moment. Ruby wants to help. And yes, maybe at first I'm a touch reticent to hand over a hit to another addict, especially when I'm in no fit state to argue with her should she decide to spike her own arm instead, but it's clear she wants to help. Big blue eyes. I'm starting to get dizzy again and I use them to stay here. Big sparkly blue eyes. If the rest of her didn't look like a wire frame covered in old newspaper, they'd probably be beautiful. "That door done some fucking number on you, AC."

"The door got as good as it gave."

"Glad to hear it. Hold still."

I don't like her tapping up the vein, holding tight to the arm. I feel very far away from it all, and I want to be farther; the last time this happened it wasn't Ruby but Danielle. It's strange, even disturbing, to find I don't want to think about it. Not with things the way they are, her whereabouts unknown, her welfare. I let her fire, of course, I do, but I take my arm back fast after that.

It's a dull, half-formed high. From a base state, heroin is beautiful. It's epic, a symphony, a Wagnerian opus that tops everything, transcends, takes one far, far, _wonderfully_ far away. But I've got too much ground to catch up. I'm too damaged, too much pain to numb before it can even start to work on me. As a result, I remain relatively sensible, relatively awake, and Christ, it's hell. It's better hell, but it's still hell.

Dimly, half a thought comes back to me. I dig into one pocket and root around, then try the other, and find the sparkling iPod. "This is yours, I believe."

Ruby grabs it back, almost greedy, holds it up to the light like a suspect banknote, "Aw, mate, you are _joking_! Thought it was lost and gone forever, so I did…"

"Mies' flat. It was lying in the doorway."

"That's a double thanks I owe you."

"Not really. You led me there and then… well, that machine came in quite useful too. Call it quits, Ruby, be beholden to nobody."

"You talk some shit, I'm telling you."

"The burden of a classical education, Ruby. Thank your lucky stars you never got one."

"Look, I'm not thick, alright? I've got eight GCSEs at a C or more. I got an _A_ in my maths!"

"What's the square root of two-hundred-and-twenty-five?"

"Fifteen, y'prick."

"_Well done_…"

"Thank you. Bet none of them coppers down the road can do _that_ off the top of their head."

"I've had a great number of dealings with those angels of the law and I can assure you, Ruby, you're absolutely- wait, what? Pardon?"

"Oh, were you not about for all the shooting?" Something in her mind connects my presence with gunshots. I don't know whether to be offended or proud. Nonetheless, I shake my head. "Some fucking dive off the Square, 'bout two hours ago; this lunatic goes proper batshit mental and starts shooting the place up. That's as much as I heard, anyway."

Which is a strange one to hear, because I only ended up in this particular Hugo's because I was on my way to Darcy's hotel. Which is a fucking dive off the Square. And well I know how dear Darcy holds his precious gun.

"You know, Ruby, if you still really wanted to do me a favour, you could help me get up from here. That would make everything even."


	36. Funny Ha Ha:Funny Scary

_Sherlock_

Ruby's as good at her word. She puts me back on my feet and now all I have to do is stay up here. It's just that having had my little sit down, I now feel a very long, dizzy way from the ground. Have to stick to the walls. Not leaning, not supported, just keeping a straight edge in the corner of my eye. Helps me orientate myself. I think I'm walking better than I was before the hit.

Which is lucky; no need to look too shamefaced when I almost walk into one of those cops I was looking for. A street or two away from the disturbance, glancing about like a cartoon rat before he sneaks a hip flask from his pocket and takes a quick nip of something that makes him shudder. Between the fingers of his right hand, an idle cigarette. I pluck it away and use it to light one of my own.

"Alright, Lestrade?"

"What the-… Jesus _Christ_, what happened to _you_?"

"Oh, honestly, you'd think I'd grown two heads the way everybody's getting on."

"Are you alright?"

"Tip-top. What brings you down this way?"

"You never did call me back with those names."

"It's been a very long day. Jon Darcy's one of them."

"Darcy," he says, looking slightly dazzled. Then points over my shoulder, out across the square, down that other street, where the police cars are parked on the kerb and the tape runs from them to the hotel like a contagion cordon. "But the guy we're looking for is-"

"You don't say? So what the hell are you doing over here then? And who's dead?"

He stands back, takes a breath like he's going to tell me, then remembers himself. "I can't discuss that with you."

"Oh, of course not. You're an officer of the law. What do you need a civilian like me for? It's not like I can help you in anyway. It's not like you've had that proven to you. It's not like if it wasn't for a civilian you wouldn't even have this case-"

"I don't even _want_ this case anymore."

"Well, that's gratitude."

"I'm _serious_, Sherlock." Relenting, he points over my shoulder again. "Four men dead. All Americans. And another one jumped off an apartment building across town earlier tonight."

He didn't jump. Until I see him I won't know what _did_ happen, but he didn't jump. Something was done to him, and I'd lay down a week's worth of junk it's been Mies that did it. These other four, now dead, they were sent to pick up Darcy, or to pick up Mies in hiding. They were revengers, a hit squad, and they were massacred. Darcy was backed into a corner; there were no other exits to that room he was in. At a guess, they put the door in and he picked them off as they entered. No problem for a sharpshooter, for a man who's seen it all before.

I tell Lestrade all this and he just sort of stares at me. He's not asking any of the right questions. Actually, he's not asking any. So I offer; "Have you seen the place where the first one was killed?"

"No."

"Well? Post-haste, Detective Sergeant; fetch the car."

He puts forth all the usual arguments. Can't just up and leave, in charge of people here, still an investigation going on, can't bring you, blah, blah, blah. Five minutes later, he gets the car. I meet him a couple of streets away so he doesn't have to explain me.

Inside that quiet metal box, the same background radio as a lift, the same awkward tone to break the silence, "So. Who kicked your face in then?"

"I could tell you, but then somebody else might have to kill you."

"Sherlock, what's going _on_? Tell me something. Anything. Just so I know we're not chasing our tails-"

"You're definitely not doing that."

"Is this all still MI5?"

"MI5 and whoever owns the dead Americans."

"So what did Charlotte Stendhal have to do with any of this?"

"Who?" Takes a moment, and then I remember. "Oh, keep up, Lestrade. Absolutely nothing. They thought she was… someone else."

"You said Mies before. I did hear that, y'know. There's somebody called Mies in it."

"Do yourself a favour and let her name wash away from you as a leaf upon water. Dangerous bloody name to know." Lestrade goes quiet again. For a moment, I almost believe that's going to be it, that somebody, for once, is going to take my sage advice and leave me be. I'm on the very cusp of developing a healthy respect for him based on his healthy respect for me. Then I realize he's smiling. I can almost _hear_ it he's grinning so broadly. "What? What's funny?"

"That's who beat you up, isn't it? It was this woman, this Mies woman."

I tell him what he can do with his conjecture and guesswork, but he's laughing and doesn't hear me.

And then there's the flats. I'm afraid I have to look twice at the building. You see, it's a terrible place. The typical sort, brick on the outside, Scandinavian beech inside, the kind that appeals to people with money and no taste. Or money and coming from nothing and believing this is what money gets. Or with no idea whatever and only looking for somewhere to put an embarrassing family member.

We're roughly a minute's walk from where I live.

He's laughing at me again.

"Somebody died here, last night?"

"And you with all your skills, you didn't notice?"

"I was a bit busy."

"Oh really? Doing what, bleeding?"

"No, that hadn't started yet. We were still with running around the time you're talking about. Shall we?"

He still has access. There's a caretaker sitting worriedly in the hall, who hops to his feet the moment Lestrade walks in. I'm passed off as a potential witness, involved in the case, and somehow this seems to explain the bruises. We move through like residents. Lestrade's taking me to the roof, which is natural enough. But all the interesting things are on the way there. For instance, the dirty round marks on the hallway tiles are not from shoes but from the pads of bare feet. Raised up but not far enough apart to denote running. Someone walking tall. Somebody used to high heels.

And the marks on the stairs where someone has scuffed a new black shoe. Used to different stairs, deeper, a higher standard tread. American.

An empty metal bracket behind the fire door onto the roof. What used to be there?

And when we're looking down he points to show where the man fell and how he was lying.

No.

He was already dead when he was dropped, feet first, from a standing position. Which makes no sense because if you're canny enough to hold him up, you're canny enough to flip him forward, and this, all of this, it's not nonsense, because if you've got that brain then you're not doing this by accident and this, finally, is something just a little bit interesting, something a little bit more sexy than all the cat and mouse, not that that hasn't been fun, very distracting, an elegant, if painful way to pass a couple of days, but something _different_. The implication of a mind that understands…

"Do you know you're saying all this out loud?"

"…Yes?"

"In front of a police officer?"

"Take me to the body."

And he sighs and mutters and grumbles and can't do this, must be insane, blah, blah, blah, but he lets me back in the car anyway. Of course he does. He needs me.

Police? Do this themselves? My turn to laugh, I think…

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

People don't tend to think of me as scary, y'know.

Hugo does. But Hugo's seen me be scary first hand. No pun intended… Okay, yeah, pun intended. My point is, he knows it for a fact. But people looking at me for the first time don't see a scary person. And sometimes I think to myself that that's quite nice; it doesn't show. I can walk down the street or go for a pint or sit next to you on the bus and you don't have a fucking clue. Not that I'd want to sit next to you on a bus. All I mean is, it can be quite nice not to be outright scary. It's because I'm not generally seen, you see. People who are out and about and having to be seen to be scary all the time, they start to appear scary. It shows on them. Announces them to the world. But I'm usually much farther away.

I don't look like anything.

The last American sentry has been in the room with me almost a full minute before he sees me sitting on Steele's bed. Or Steele's former bed. Or the late Steele's bed. What's the grammar for dead people? Fuck it, anyway, he finally notices me, and that's the only shock I think I give him. The gun comes out quick, but in a millisecond he seems to have assessed me and found me to be no threat.

"You're not Steele."

"Neither are you, mate."

"This is Steele's room, what the hell are you doing here?"

"By which token I could ask you the same question."

"Answer the goddamn question."

Ah, poor boy – he thinks he's going to run me off by putting a gun to my head. He thinks I'm going to sit here and quiver and realize I've made a terrible mistake. Please. I've had guns to my head. I've been holding some of them. Even Danielle knew better than to try something so fucking _basic_ with me.

The thing about a gun is, if you don't immediately fire, somebody's going to take it away and use it against you. And I do. Nice and fast, before he knows I'm doing it, I just take it out of his stupid one-handed gangster grip. It's backward, so I sit up and clunk him with it, round the side of the head. It puts him down, gives me enough time to get it the right way round.

"I fecking hate guns. Did you know you can _shoot_ people with them?" So I dismantle it and I split the pieces up and now we can have a conversation like human beings. While his head's still spinning I move to the edge of the bed and put my foot on his chest. He's enough disorientated that this holds him down. "Now. I take it you're here to clear down the room in the wake of Mr Steele's untimely demise. And that's alright, because I already know most of what I need to."

He's still not scared of me.

He's dizzy and winded and on the floor under my shoe, but he's still not scared. When he gets up, when he gets his breath, he thinks he can take me and this is all just a stick in the road. These army types, they don't fear much. If you've gone private it's probably because you're that fucked up the proper boys don't want you anymore. Even the fear of death has usually gone a little bit dull.

The fear of a long painful one, though…

I shift my weight forward a little, onto that one shoe, onto his sternum. It's a big strong bone, but it's one inflexible piece. No bend in it, no give. And all your squishy bits are right there underneath it. Just a little bit of weight.

"All about who you all are, I've got that. All about why you're here…. Yeah, got that too. All about Mies and Darcy and what they're supposed to have done, that's handled, that's all got… There was one more thing though… Fuck… Fuck's sake, what was it… Before I leave, I should really remember."

On the pretence of staying comfortable, I shift my weight a little bit more. He's starting to come around a bit, and he's starting to get the picture. If I stand up he's well fucked. He puts his hands around my ankle, but hIs elbows keep banging the ground. He's got no grip, no leverage. I push down a little harder.

"Oh aye, that's it, that's what I wanted to ask." I have to shift forward so I can get a good look at him. Eye contact. That's important for proper communication. "Where did they take Danielle Mies?"

"I'm clearing rooms. What do I know about what they're doing now?"

"You're clearing _rooms_? Plural? So this isn't just because Steele's dead, this is because you lot are taking off soon. Or what's left of you, anyway." And he's starting to choke now, fighting harder at my ankle, but so long as I keep sliding forward I can keep him breathless, and he doesn't have the strength. "Which means you think you're near the end of your game. So where the fuck is Danielle, then?"

He tries to laugh because he's got nothing else. It doesn't move me. I make myself laugh along with him, and that takes it all away from him again. "Waiting for her goddamn friend!"

Yeah.

Oh, don't be thick! _Of course_ it's a trap! They know they've stuck together this far, so they take Danielle and Darcy's sure to follow. But the fact is, they can't really know him very well at all. Darcy'll shoot all their fucking faces off before they can look up from Danielle's tits. I'm not worried about traps and neither's he.

"Yeah, but waiting where?"

By now by toe has reached that fleshy little sweet spot in the cradle of his collarbone and my heel is focussing most of my weight right between his ribs. If I stay like this, he'll suffocate over the course of twelve-to-fifteen excruciating minutes. He doesn't know the specifics like that, but he knows it's not going to be good and it's not going to go his way. He knows it fucking hurts, and after about ninety seconds he chokes something.

I ease back just enough to let him talk. Actually, if I stay where I am, it's twenty-to-twenty-five minutes. But to him, this feels better.

He says, "Warehouse. Fuckin' cat food factory. Five minutes from Heathrow. Place fucking stinks, you can't miss it."

"See? Not so difficult, was it?"

Me, looking down at him, almost smiling, I must look like a reasonable person. I must look like the kind of guy who believes in giving people a chance, particularly when they've been so cooperative. Because I'm not a threat, remember? I'm a nice guy, out of his depth, god knows what I'm doing here. Yeah. I'm going to take my foot away now and let him up, aren't I?

I stay exactly where I am.

He starts to realize he still can't really breathe round about the time I'm leaning down. It's a bit of a stretch to do it and keep the pressure on, but I need his phone. I fetch it from his inside pocket and scroll through contacts until he nods, indicating who's in charge at the warehouse.

I take a deep breath and press the green button, waiting for this one to die under my foot.

The answer comes, "What is it, Jimmy?"

"Oh, just Jim, thanks." I lean forward again. He's getting to the point where the dark slips in. He'll go to sleep with agonizing pain radiating out along his ribs and into his spine and up to his skull, and he'll hover there between living and dying for another ten-to-fifteen. I've done this a couple of times. You get the timing right; the last thing that guy sees as his eyes are closing is me, and I'm saying, "Are you a Jim too? What are the odds?..."

And I'm thinking to myself while he goes that it was really only fair that I got one. Danielle got one. Darcy got four, but then he's a professional. Only fair I do my bit, really.

People don't usually think of me as scary.

People are thick.


	37. Intuition:Evidence

_Jim_

"So who am I talking to? I've been dealing with a Michael Steele up until now, is he about?" Rather than just introduce himself, the man on the far end wastes time swearing at me. Well, I say wastes, but then again, I get a lot of out of it. For instance, I can hear the racket of the flightpath in the background on his end. All the profanity makes Danielle laugh, so I know she's there and at the very least she's still defiant. And in the meantime I'm connecting Steele's laptop to the hotel network and finding this supposed factory they're keeping her at. There's a note for all you would-be kidnappers out there. Don't waste any time during the negotiations; likelihood is the other guy isn't wasting it at all.

"Your parents must have had a sense of humour, Mr Goddamn Cunt…"

"…Stryker."

"Steele and Stryker… You two made that up, didn't you? Christ Jesus, I think I might just stick with Mr Cunt, I'll feel less stupid. Anyway, let's not fuck about; put the lady on the line."

"Hold your fuckin' horses. Who are _you_?"

"Well, seeing you're Mr Cunt, I'll just be Mr Cock and then you'll be under no illusions as to the fact that you're fucked."

But in the background, you can hear dull, fleshy noises; blows landing, and words muttered too low to make out being spoken.

The response, though, I hear the response; that's quite loud. "Such fucking language! What would your sister and the kids say, farm-boy?"

And I hear his response, which isn't quite so reliant on words. It's another one of those fleshy noises. Bit louder than the other ones.

"Mr Cunt, I'm getting very annoyed at what I hear going on over there-"

"You know the score. We're just running her through the usual; don't use our names, don't issue any warnings, don't tell him where you are-"

"You think I need _her_ to tell me? You lads are easier than that. Now put her on the fecking phone before I get proper pissed off."

He swears at me some more while all the shuffling goes on, while the phone gets passed over, while I get put on speaker. Then, a voice all thick and breathless and relieved, "Jon?"

"No, s'me, but don't worry, he's on his way."

Imagine, if you will, all those stupid yanks smiling all over their faces because Darcy's on his way. They'll collect the pair, deliver them, and five dead comrades, well, that's just five ways they don't have to split the fee anymore.

"Tell him tiger-tiger-tiger lots of times."

Translation: not managing this myself, need him now, urgently, this hurts. Which is to be expected. It wasn't like they were going to tickle her with feather dusters. She killed one of them for definite and maybe the other four; she was a target to start with and now they're annoyed. If it was me, Goganye could go and whistle; I'd have bumped her by now. Thing is, it wouldn't happen with me. I don't keep people about me like that, don't do that whole team spirit bit. Which is why it's strange how angry I get when I hear her in distress.

"It was so stupid, Jim… You said you were sending a car and they pulled up and I was hurt and wrecked and I didn't even look, I just got in and I was _so fucking close_ and-"

"Dani, are you reminded at all of Treadstone where you are?"

"Yes." She gets it right away, and it's all the confirmation I need. When she says it, when she knows Darcy's on his way and the Americans have no idea what we just discussed, she sounds almost like one about to fall asleep, almost safe. "The whole thing stinks of Treadstone, thank God… But Jim, there's one other thing before they take the phone away."

"Shoot."

"Don't give them ideas. But Jim, I hid the drawings. This lot don't care or even know what I'm on about so I can tell you. I was being followed before I even got to the hotel. They were there as soon as I got out of the cab at Wardour Street, so I hid them. Left them with a shopgirl I know personally. But the spooks are all over the area and I-"

"Understood; say no more." If she tells me exactly where they are, her captors will go and get them just to spite her. Just because she thinks it's important. But they won't waste time looking.

"You'll know the shop. You'll recognize what's in the window. But Jim, be really properly honest with me – is Jon really on his way?"

And this is a different kind of question. She doesn't sound distressed anymore. She sounds hard and empty, like she's steeling herself for the worst still to come. This is the question that makes me think twice about answering. "Why do you ask?"

There's a pause. Too long of a pause. All of a sudden I know what she's about to say and what it means and what they'll do to her for saying it.

Very quickly, even as the phone is taken from her, screaming to be heard, "Tell him not to! Tell him they're ready for him this time and they'll fucking ki-" I don't get the rest. They gag her, and then they hang up.

It leaves me sitting there for far, far too long, feeling hollowed out, feeling like I don't know what I should do anymore. Because this doesn't happen to me. This part, this all comes afterward, by which stage I'm not even a shadow on it anymore. I keep telling myself I should leave them to it. That this never needed to be any of my business and nobody's going to come looking for me, so why shouldn't I walk away?

Then I call Darcy.

"Did you get a place?"

"Yeah, but listen to me for a second-"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no. You're going to tell me I shouldn't go because it's a trap."

"_No_. Well, yeah, but everybody knew that."

"So what then?"

"Danielle. Danielle knew that and Danielle still said don't let him come. Now does that not tell you something?"

"It doesn't matter whether it does or not." I don't understand. I don't know how to tell him that, so I wait, and he says, "It's this or leave her rotting. Unless you've got a better idea. Maybe they know that and maybe they're playing it but it doesn't make any difference. If they're doing it to give me no choice then well done them. Because I've no choice."

"…Do you want me with you?"

"No offence, mate, you'll be worse than useless."

"None taken."

I give him the address and tell him good luck.

Me? Probably go and get the drawings. Make myself useful to somebody… Weird…

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Apparently, when a coroner has a trainee, he does actually have to be there to train her. Or to do any work. Honestly, you wonder what chance poor Molly Hooper will ever have in the real world. She'll probably never sit her final exams, never mind pass them. But I suppose she's doing her best and so long as she can pull out the right slab I don't really need for much. Seems a capable girl, sure she can manage.

She balks when she sees me. But I've got a real bona fide copper with me now and she can't say anything except, "What are _you_ doing back?"

"It's alright," Lestrade fills in. "He's with us this time."

"I'm with them this time," I echo. "Thought I'd save you the trouble of phoning them up after I leave."

She straightens her back, manages to look passably offended, something like a bird fluffing up its feathers. "_I_ just don't take kindly to people breaking in on my watch, _that's_ all."

"Even when they help you catch a potentially disastrous mistake made by your superior, helping you protect his job and earning you all the brownie points you could stitch to your little sash?"

She eyes me with hate, ready to speak again, but Lestrade steps in, one hand held out, requesting peace. "We just need to see the jumper that came in last night."

Molly Hooper stands up sighing, "Again? The autopsy's not even _done_ yet."

"What?" Lestrade asks. He's quick; I was about to say the same thing.

"Well, I'm waiting for Mr Holloway to come in."

"No, what do you mean 'again'?"

"I had one of your lot in early asking about Steele. A D.I. Jameson? All very urgent."

I look to Lestrade, who looks gravely back and slowly shakes his head. "We don't have a Jameson." She glares at him as if he might be joking and it's just not funny. Then it dawns on her and she sinks down on her stool.

"Not again, Molly," I say, dully.

But it makes her angry, snaps her out of the imminent depression to throw up a hand and cry, "Well, he was a _damn_ sight more convincing than you!"

Lestrade cuts in with the normal questions. What did he want, did he take anything, did he touch the body, but none of this actually matters. What matters is the body, how he died, what we're supposed to have learned from it. While they're talking and he's getting her gradually more wound up and useless I consult the list hanging by the door and wheel out Michael Steele, 53, the 'jumper' who, I know as soon as I see him, never jumped.

"Single blow to the head," I announce, if only to shut up the constant barrage of pointless questions from Lestrade.

"Couldn't have been delivered by the ground at all?"

"The ground is rather a brute, Lestrade. Tends to go more for the smashy-smashy approach, rather than taking its time and a very careful aim to deliver a quick, stopping burst to a particularly sweet though awkward spot at the base of the skull."

Molly Hooper, having probably done quite enough to break the rules already this morning, thank you very _much_, comes over when I lift up Steele's head. I can look, apparently, but not touch. That's too far. Which tells me that this 'Jameson' did no such thing. He didn't come for the body itself.

Or the body held no mystery for him.

But I'll get back to that in a minute, when Miss Hooper isn't trying to push the Steele tray back into its slot. "I really can't let you do that. The autopsy hasn't even been done yet, I'm waiting for Doctor Holloway and-"

"Good. You can correct him before he _begins_ his cover-up this time."

"You really don't understand-"

"Neither do you. If you push any harder and I drop this man's head with any force it's liable to explode." She jumps back, yelping. Lestrade swears and staggers. And I very gently set down Michael Steel's hyperpressurized coconut, take Hooper's proffered lab coat and use it as a pillow for him. And while she's standing there, wringing her pale hands… with the fine, papery skin showing the ridges down the back…

"Molly, how long have you been here?"

"What?"

"Here. In the lab. How long? I only ask because you haven't slept. That much is clear. Nightshift extending into the morning, waiting for the boss, but the _lab_, Molly, when was the last time you left the lab?"

"Well, I had to take responsibility when they brought Steele in, suicides are special cases, and Mr Holloway took the keys last night by accident and the place can't be left unattended so-"

"…Lestrade, Miss Hooper's been stuck down here on her own all night." He doesn't say anything. Shifts foot to foot trying to think of something. Useless thing… "Don't you think somebody had better nip up and get her a coffee from somewhere, Detective Sergeant, in the industry of public service, defending your support staff, quickly, please."

He is almost laughing, "I am _not_ leaving you here with the body."

"Of course you are."

He actually turns. Must admit, I didn't expect that to work. Off he goes, white knight, to provide for the damsel, who despite my intervention is still glaring nervous daggers at me as I lift up the head again to get a look at the strike point. Very soon though, she just can't help herself. Morbid fascination, you see; it's practically a prerequisite of the job. Leans in like a child and quietly, carefully, "When you said 'might well explode'?"

"Mmh. Would have been a lovely surprise for you, when you took the circular saw to the skull, and the whole thing just burst. Pressure. The brain inside is practically mulch. The strike created a seal around the brain stem. The killer popped Mr Steele's brain. You can tell from the eyes. Look at the crazy angles. Same as a gunshot to the back of the head, but without the gun. And the brain matter leaking out through the perforated eardrum is a dead giveaway. You should eat something."

"Brain m… But it's so… runny…"

"Liquidized. It popped, remember? Here-" I've got a KitKat, one of the ones I stole from Mies' fridge, still in my coat. "Take this. It's been in my pocket a while but it's not all the way melted yet."

She takes it. Unwraps it from the end, treating the paper wrapper and the foil alike, which is strange and I've never seen that. Leaning over the body she bites off the end, ravenous, and asks "Then what? They threw him off a roof to cover it up?"

But they didn't throw him. She has no way of knowing about the angle he was found at, but she can clearly see that all the damage is below the waist. The spine is broken, but below the ribs, not at the neck. He was dropped, as if from a two-footed hop off the edge. It's not how jumpers jump. His legs are crushed to crazy angles, but if the skull is not fractured, and that skull is just _dying_ to fracture. There could have been almost no impact at all at the head end.

They were _preserving_ the fact that he'd already been murdered.

And you can say whatever you want about criminals not being that clever, about the clever ones wanting to be caught, it still doesn't make any sense.

You're still thinking, aren't you? You're trying to find the other angle, the one I've missed. And that's alright, because so was I for the first few seconds. Of course you're still thinking. You need everything to have an explanation. That's natural, so does everybody. That's the instinct that gave us science and psychology and an understanding of the facts that used to be base fears and superstitions. It gave us medicine, gave us pathology. There must always be a cause and there must always be a cure.

It's alright that you're still thinking.

"Molly, this _Jameson_-"

"Oh, look, don't start-"

"No, did he _take_ anything when he left?" Lestrade's already asked this question, but I wasn't listening because I didn't think it was important.

"No. He just asked to see the… No, wait, there was a piece of paper. A note with a blue letterhead, but I couldn't read it. It looked like an address."

"Alright, so that's still not important. I need to see those things, though, where is it all?" You can tell a lot from the corpse, of course, but more from what he was wearing, what he had with him at the time. Molly's not moving though. Not fetching me anything. I got Lestrade to go for coffee and she's not fetching anything. That's hardly fair now, is it? And it's not that she's still wary of me. Well, she is, but that's not what's stopping her. She's looking at me with a sort of curiosity this time, and a touch of repulsion, as if she wants very much to look away and can't. Morbid fascination. "What?"

"Who _are_ you?"

"Not a good question."

"Excuse me?"

"Too much on, too much to do. Too many much more prudent questions to ask and have answered. That information wouldn't serve the purpose right now, we'd only be wasting time getting into all that. Not a good question. Ask another, Molly. Ask a better question and maybe we'll find answers."


	38. The Suit:The Scanties

_Sherlock_

That nasty conversational bullet dodged, Molly is finally persuaded to bring me Steele's effects. If I can get stuck into them before Lestrade comes back he's got much less chance of stopping me going through them. She brings them and together we lay them out on the dissecting table, reconstructing the man as he was brought in. Some bloodstains on the trousers of his suit, but that's from where the broken bones jutted through the skin, nothing to worry about. The suit, though, the suit is worrying.

The suit is well-worn, and easy-clean. The only people who wear suits like this are the kind of people who shouldn't wear suits at all.

"Are you aware you're saying all this out loud?"

"Would you rather I stood here in silence, Molly?"

"What do you mean people who shouldn't wear suits?"

"Look at it. Threadbare. Repaired. Expertly, but still repaired. Worn at the knees and elbows, and stretched here in the jacket, under the arm. Covering a bulge."

"You mean a gun?"

She's quicker than I've thought until now. Maybe she's got a chance after all, hopeless Mr Holloway or no. "Yes, Molly, a gun. We might as well be looking down at combat fatigues."

She has the gun by now. Everything's in a blue plastic crate, and she peers over the edge, finding the shoulder holster to go with it. Gun's a Berretta, semi-automatic, with – yes, Molly produces a clip of parabellum rounds. An old U.S. military favourite, a good disabler and executer. I stretch out a hand and she places a passport in it.

Michael Steele of Richmond, V.A. Occupation listed as personal security.

It doesn't take an expert to look at Steele with his sidewall haircut and his scars and his permanent sneer even in death and put this all together.

I ask her to excuse me just a second, step away across the room and call Mycroft.

You see, he can be useful to me sometimes too. It's nice when it happens like this; he'll think I'm being good, doing as I'm told, feeding him the information he asked for. And I get the pleasure of seeing him do what I want him to do.

The phone rings _once_, if that. See, he knows I can help him now. This is what siblings are.

"Sherlock, where did you go? I was w-"

"Oh, please, don't bother with all that. Private militia. Does private militia fit the bill? The very scary people I'm not allowed to know about, the ones behind all this that aren't you, could they hire a squad of American ex-military mercenaries?"

"For heaven's sake, where _are_ you?"

"Why? Why does that matter? I'm standing over the body of one of said mercenaries and… And I think I'm meant to be." Realization is beautiful. Realization tastes like the best kind of hit. The same feeling I had looking down from the rooftop, when the strangeness of the death made it almost right, almost worth it. Realization is golden. "I think I'm _meant_ to be on the phone with you right now."

"Sherlock, what's the matter with you? Why are you laughing?"

"Don't you see it, Mycroft? It's all there, why don't you see it? Honestly, it's the gallery all over again. They leave _everything_ in their wake and it's like it's _invisible_, don't you _see_? That's why it doesn't make sense, it's too strange."

But it's too late already. I can hear him giving quiet orders with his hand over the mouthpiece. Telling them to find out about the body of an American and kill the investigation. Telling them to find out about an American mercenary squad in operation. Telling them everything he's supposed to because the information was supposed to get back to him and somebody was able to see all those steps ahead, everything, all the angles, and knows exactly how all of this would happen.

It's so beautiful. I'm almost happy to have fallen for it to have seen it in action.

MI5 take the Americans out of the equation.

Darcy and Mies, in possession of the drawings, negotiate their freedom with MI5 unhindered.

Almost happy.

"Molly, quickly. This man has friends and I need to find them within about five minutes."

I say it all with speed and urgency, and she starts to tremble again. Whether its fear or excitement it makes her useless to me. "What happened? Who was on the phone?"

"Nobody, but he's about to close all of this down and this body will be gone before you can lay a scalpel to it once. Do me a favour; don't tell them about the head. And take a picture if it happens. Tell me there's a mobile in that box."

"Uh… yeah, yes, there is." She fishes it out and hands it to me. She's a good assistant. That, or I've baffled her into submission, but either way, she's effective.

It's easy. You look at the numbers, at the call logs in and out, you see who's the most popular, check the messages, then the voicemail and oh, wonderful, glorious, there's one, and the number matches all the missed calls that came in while Steele was busy being dead.

"Boss, you ain't picked up so I'm gonna take it the mick is giving you trouble. But when you're done, we got one of them and we're out at the factory."

That's it. Not the most careful message in the world, no codes, but there doesn't need to be, because it tells me absolutely nothing. Factory. Where? I start going over Steele's shoes, but there isn't time now to get properly stuck in. A factory somewhere out of the way, where Mies or Darcy could have been brought.

"Um-" Molly is starting, but I'm trying to think, so I raise a hand. "But-"

"_Please_, Molly, this is important."

She grits her teeth, hisses at me, "Yeah, and will this help?" She's holding out a small, handheld satnav. From his car. Brought it with him, protecting it and why? Because that little machine knows where he's been since he's been in London. And I'll bet it knows where the factory is.

With unusually good timing, Lestrade picks just this moment to walk in. Talking about coffee machines and quality and finding change and taking too long. I let him get far enough to give Molly the paper cup, then take him by the arm and start out of the room again. "Come on. You don't want to be here when the spooks land in and if you still want to have a case in the morning we have to go."

"Sorry, '_spooks_'?" Molly balks.

"Yes. And Molly, dear, do give them hell. Don't let them intimidate you, they're all just overeducated coppers."

"And what am I then?" Lestrade cries, then realizes there are better questions and starts in on them. Where are we going, what do I mean about his case, and what the hell did I mean by spooks. I tell him I'll answer him in the car.

"And Molly, don't forget what I said about the head!"

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

I probably shouldn't be back around this part of town, y'know. Not after just barely escaping last night with a gentleman who'd just shot four people. But maybe nobody will be looking for me for just that reason.

That's the logic that landed Darcy in a hotel room with no second exit. I've clearly lost far, far too much sleep.

And this is already a strange old game I'm playing. I keep thinking of _The Crystal Maze_, the 'mental' games where these daft fuckers in their stupid jumpsuits would be standing over a map and following clues. Or trying to and doing it wrong while everybody shouted at them and Richard O'Brien was wilfully strange in the background. And you'd be sitting there screaming at them, pointing at the fucking thing, and they just wouldn't get it.

I have clues and I'm standing in the middle of the map. Danielle said she got out of the cab at Wardour Street and knew right away she was being followed. So she probably wouldn't have led them directly towards the hotel. Actually probably would have feinted back to try and lose them, so I've been moving east, but I'm getting too far away now.

She left the drawings with a shopgirl she knew personally. And I'm supposed to know the place because of the window display.

No, this is wrong. I'll turn back towards Wardour Street and start again.

All of this might be wrong, actually. Maybe the best I could do is go and get the two of them fresh passports. Let's face it, when Darcy gets her free, they'll already be within spitting distance of the airport.

When, by the way. I said 'when', not 'if'. He will. He was determined and ready for it. They don't stand a cat's chance in hell of surviving that. I mean it too, I'm not even worried about him. It's just it'll be a _raging_ shame if anything happens to Darcy. He's a hell of a hitter. I already said and I've no qualm over saying again, his kind are hard to come by. Danielle too, come to think of it. And there are lots of career-ending wounds for a thief of her calibre. There's always a place on the short con circuit for her, but there's so many ways to disable her. It could be done and all.

But like I said, not going to happen.

Not a cat's chance in hell.

Speaking of which, I'm going to have to skirt hell on this next corner. Hell is two drag queens and the associated strip-hag all standing tall on platforms and dragged up high with big teased hair and _Christ_, shouldn't they be back in their coffins? It's eleven in the morning, fuck's sake, I think the clubs are closed, don't you? And I'm actually starting to think the one on the far left, with the suspenders showing, might actually just be a really hideous woman. They're all gathered about looking at something, sickly staring, covering their mouths. And something must develop, because the one that's definitely female, or a really, really good drag, she screams and reels like she's going to be sick, "_That_ is fucking disgustin'!"

As I get closer I see what it is they're all gawking at, and it's not disgusting really. It's perfectly natural. It's how the world goes round. It is quite literally the most perfect illustration of natural order you could ever hope to stumble across on a street corner. It's a cat eating a mouse.

Actually, no, scratch that, it's fucking _Treadstone_ eating a mouse.

I get the mouse off him and fling it at her strappy shoes, just to see her jump. She jumps all the way back to the kerb and clatters down into the road, ripping the backs of her stockings and her thighs, so it's all to the good. "He has to _eat_, love. We can't all live on coke and cum, now, can we?"

The two big crossers step up to defend her, but they're all talk. Talk, I can ignore. And it does rather cover up, to anybody who might be passing, the fact that I'm about to address a cat. "You'll be off the Whiskas for a week, mate, it's Sheba all the way if you know where your big sister went last night."

A clear plastic platform and stiletto narrowly misses him and gets me in the knee. Taking the shoe by the heel, I stand up, leaving two out of three in the gutter where they belong. I follow Treadstone when he bolts.

Round the corner, onto Broadwick Street. I've already been this way. But I must have been distracted. Too caught up to be properly looking. Now that I'm here again, it's obvious.

This is that _Crystal Maze_ thing again. This is the bit where you didn't get the crystal and you're outside the room, and Richard O'Brien points out the solution to you, and all the good, good people in their armchairs call you _all_ the names they can think of.

She was right about the window display. How could I bloody forget? She wrapped the fucking things around my laptop.

Purple lace underwear in the window of an _Agent Provocateur_. Of course she knows the staff personally; she's probably got a standing bloody order. This is her Tiffany's. Treadstone even knows where to put himself, curling in the doorway where the door can't hit him, and where he can paw contentedly at the window where a small, tasteful display of riding crops with crystal encrusted handles and glittering masks gleams just enough to catch his attention.

She's making me go in there, isn't she?

You will forgive me if I leave out the details. Suffice to say it's a bit excruciating and I'm going to kill her. Suffice to say that from a shelf full of books with titles like _69, Secrets_ and _Confessions_, an artless, sawdust-dry treatise on binomial theory is handed down to me with some pictures folded up in its pages and I take it very quickly away. Just suffice yourselves with all that and know only that we're not talking about this again. We're just not. That's just not a thing that's going to happen.

I'm going to get Treadstone out of here before he goes completely wild and get myself home before I start to look like a suspicious disappearance in the wake of last night's not-quite-suicide. And Darcy's going to phone to tell me he's on his way back to the safe house with Danielle.

And before all that, I'm going to get a coffee somewhere so my hands can stop shaking after that _shop_, after those _women_ that work in it. Friends of Danielle's each and every of them, and taking me for a _friend_ of Danielle's, and deaf to any and all attempts to explain otherwise, and all very hands-on ladies, all of them, and I have my suspicions they might have had some cruel instructions from the woman herself to be that way. I can't get in a cab like this; he'll ask me what _happened_. No, coffee first. There's a Pret á Manger around here somewhere…


	39. Defeat:Victory

_Jim_

So Treadstone's waiting outside, and I'm in the queue and-

No. No, just no. Let me start over. I have left the cat, the brute animal that no more knows me from Adam except everything I own stinks of his owner, outside. He… _it_ is not waiting. This is getting ridiculous, this pet thing. This isn't even me, I don't know _what _it is.

So yeah, the wild thing is in the fresh air where it belongs, and me, being the domesticated sod I am, I am in the line for the carefully measured and dispensed caffeine salvation upon which a gentleman of my class and generation might consider he has a right to depend.

Yes. That's much better. That reads like a sensible person saying sensible things.

Now, to my actual _point_. By virtue of this being a queue, I am not the only person in it. Otherwise I'd have had my laughable 'service' by now and be gone.

There's a fella up ahead. Right at the front, actually, what you'd call 'next', and he's queuing too. He's done well at queuing, he's good at it, and now he's made it all the way to the top of the line, and in just a little second, some sour-faced fucker's going to yell 'Next, please.' This fella, he's worked for this, he's _earned _the title of 'Next'. He'll roll up to the counter, enjoying his Nextness while somebody else becomes Next.

Then his mobile rings.

I always listen in when a mobile rings at the top of the queue. There's a good chance you're going to get to see all the terrible beauty of human nature unfold before your eyes when that happens.

First comes shock. "What? No, but I'm just about to-" At this point, the speaker will be cut off by the terribly important things on the other end of the line.

Then denial. "But can't somebody else-? I mean, does it have to be _now_?"

Bargaining. "Okay, so I'll just get my sandwich to go and-"

Then, beauty of beauties, wonder of wonders, all the glory of this pinnacle of creation, utter, crushing defeat. This man, who has stood his time in this godforsaken rank and file in the pursuit of becoming 'Next', wheels away from the top of the line. He gives it all up. And he doesn't realize, not then or ever, how fecking stupid it is to begin with, but he's attached so much importance to the status of 'Next' that his whole day is now completely fucked. It's beautiful.

Or it would be.

Except that this guy isn't getting called away to pick the kids up from school or run to the shops or do any of the usual errands.

It's far more important than that. You can tell from his tone. And he's got that trained voice, the public schoolboy toned back just enough to fit in. And when he rolls off the front of the line and goes storming out, there's a car pulling up to the kerb for him. Three men inside, all looking like photocopies of the first. Right kind of car too.

And I think to myself that this probably isn't right. Probably not an entirely good thing. Luckily I don't have the burden of being Next to contend with when I leave.

I try to flag down a taxi and I try to call Darcy and neither of them is happening for me.

_None_ of this should be happening, matter of fact. I was in that hospital and Steele hadn't been touched. No sign of the proper coroner yet either. The autopsy can't have been done already. The information couldn't have been fed back to the police yet. The police couldn't have started an investigation, so the spooks couldn't have quashed it yet. And yet I'm practically certain that the spooks just left Soho on their way to a more certain location, very fast and looking very determined.

I've got the pictures, which means Darcy and Danielle don't.

If MI5 get to them first, they've got nothing to barter with. And Darcy's not picking up his fucking phone. The third time I try it I let it go to answer, just in case of that magic chance where he's really not there yet and there's a real, genuine reason for his silence.

"Darcy, if the Yanks don't kill you, the Brits will. They're on their way and so am I. Danielle will live so long as you don't put in an appearance, so just hold off, _fuck's_ sake, _hold off._"

Finally, _finally_ a cab pulls up.

I flash my identification to the driver, announced myself once more as D.I. Jameson and tell him to contact the Yard with his registration. Then I haul him out from behind the wheel and hop in.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Pulling off the motorway, Lestrade, who's been very good so far and it's really very disappointing for him to do this to me, suddenly starts shaking his head. Within ten seconds of this starting, he's actually pulled over and seems content to lose time sitting at the side of the road. "What?" He's looking at me, but he's not saying anything. He just looks angry. "_What_?"

"Get out."

A quick glance out the car windows and I have no idea where I am, and no, no, I won't, thank you. "_What_?"

"This is _insane_," he says. A bit louder, telling himself as much as me, "This is… this is _vigilante_ stuff. We need to call this in, let the right people deal with it-"

"No, no, no, no, no, what are you talking about? That's a _ridiculous_ idea." Frankly, I thought he was more intelligent than that. It's a terrible idea that will achieve nothing more than wasting time and undoing all the good work that has brought us this far and gotten us the intelligence upon which we are acting. I lay it out for him for the sake of making the point, but I'm sure I don't need to explain it for anybody with half a brain.

"A woman's life could be at stake."

That's it? _That's_ his argument? The relative safety of known art thief and assassination-suspect Danielle Mies?

I try not to laugh. I have a funny feeling that would offend him.

"And us sitting here, that's doing her _lots_ of good."

Actually, she's probably suffering while we're sitting here.

Now that I'm thinking about it, Lestrade _is_ a _relatively_ intelligent sort, I suppose. I should take my time, make sure he understands. He's no good to me if he's just blindly following, after all.

"Listen to me, Lestrade, this is _it_. You've heard about defining moments, surely. A copper must have heard _some_ tales of heroism at _some_ stage. This is yours. Do you remember how you described yourself getting into this?"

"No, but I'll bet I was wrong."

"Brave and stupid, Lestrade. And when I suggested 'ambitious', I was corrected."

Rolling his eyes, "Corrected? You? Surely not…"

"You told me this wasn't about ambition. You said it was the right thing to do. The right thing doesn't really have time to wait on protocol right now. The right thing is going to go and rescue a damsel before she turns into a corpse, whether here or in Africa and-"

"_Africa_?"

"…Tell you later." He glares. "No, really, I will, but it's not safe right now."

"Not safe from _who_?"

"Best you don't know that either, but if they get there before us it's all over. There's no case, no right thing, and _definitely_ no promotion." He looks back at the steering wheel. "Not that that matters to you." He doesn't like that, I think. That must have been a bit too close to the bone. He looks like there's something he wants to say, like he's going to snap, so I get in first. "I admired that, you know. It probably didn't sound like it at the time. And I do, honestly think it's stupid and you're wrong, but I admire it. Your ability to think that way. To see the world like that. I'll be honest, I'm going out here from simple curiosity. Tragic, really, but it's just the way my mind works. Crippling need for perpetual stimulation, occasionally supplemented by glorious bouts of complete numbness. Mies got too close; need to see this one through to the end. But _you_. You actually care that there's a life in the balance. Just the one, too. And that doesn't make any odds to you, that it's only the one, andthat the one in question is a worthless, violent, highly manipulative and above all _irritating_ bitch-"

"I _knew_ she was the one who beat you up."

I just barely hold back, _Watch it_, but he hasn't started the car again yet, so I'll hold off a while longer. "And yet it makes no difference to you."

"Well, no. You've met her, I haven't, but I'm presuming she's still a human being. There's a woman in danger, possibly under torture and we know where she is, so my point is-"

"Your point is, let's go."

He looks perplexed, as if he knew all this already. Just forgot for a moment and can't quite think why. I've been there. I usually have to be on something of a bender to be there, but he's onlybloody human, after all. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

He starts the car again. I wait until we're definitely moving, definitely back on track and then, "Lestrade?"

"Yeah?"

"Look, she's very strong, and she was intensely angry at me and-"

"It's alright, I understand-"

"No, but really, you underestimate the sort of desperation-"

"You don't have to keep defending yourself, I-"

"I'm not _defending_ myself, I just-"

"Sherlock, really, I get it-"

"I know but…"

This could go on. Maybe you'd better come back later.


	40. Not Dead:Nearly Dead

_Sherlock_

Bloody sat-nav. Some country road, middle of nowhere, and it says we're there. And while I don't doubt my plan, Lestrade does, and he's maybe five seconds from becoming utterly unbearable.

"If this keeps going how it's going, Sherlock-"

"Give me a second."

No way I've been tricked by a machine belonging to a man who was already dead. No way. I need to think about this. This road, does this mean anything, could 'factory' be some sort of code, if I was the villain of the piece, would I be stashing my hostage around here somewhere?

Lestrade's going to speak again, so I get out and walk to the verge. Mostly to get away from him. Also to light a cigarette. And looking up from the flame, I get it.

The road we're on isn't major, but it _is_ paved. Public. Charted, positioned, logged for the electronic map. But if you're standing on the verge, looking down through the ragged fringe of trees, there's a service road below. Rough, barely there, worn down by lorries coming and going from the factory. And if you're downwind and you lower your cigarette and lose the tobacco sent, there's a rank, slightly sweet smell of old meat and wet cereals.

"Lestrade."

"Yeah?"

"Turn the car off."

The factory's not in use. There are lights in places, but I imagine they're on some sort of timer. The usual signs of life, the movement, the hum, none of that's there.

"Bloody _awful_ smell," Lestrade moans, covering his mouth. He holds out of a hand towards my cigarette, snapping his fingers, demanding. Like I'm an animal. I reel, but he just rolls his eyes, "C'mon, you've had one of mine."

I fish the pack from my pocket and hold it out to him. Last one. The ones I took from Mies's apartment. The one's she's fussy about. And they are rather fine, rather smooth, elegantly strong…

"So you think they're down there then?"

"Yep."

"…So you think we're going down there, do you?"

"Not just yet," and I point; down on the service road, a car is approaching. Small, very, very normal. Unnoticed in the city. Stolen, very likely. "_He_ probably shouldn't see us."

He asks who it is. Specifically, he asks who _I_ think it is. Won't even hazard a guess. Taking _no_ responsibility whatever. While I'm waiting for my suspicions to be confirmed, I let him sweat. He deserves it. If he's going to put all this on me, he can wait until I'm sure. You see, there are very few options. For all its complexity, there aren't a lot of parties in the case. Mies and the Americans are already below, Lestrade and I are here. MI5 aren't coming in a stolen car, I don't think they've fallen that far. But there's always a chance there's somebody I don't know about.

It's tempting, isn't it? To believe, even for a second, that maybe there's somebody else who knows about all of this, or someone who could have pulled all these things together. An intelligence on the other side. Tempting.

But there's nobody I've missed. Jon Darcy is the one who gets out of the car.

On the outside, you'd say it doesn't make sense. He's walking into an ambush. But the way he parks, right out in front of the windows, the way he stands tall and walks straight up to them, he knows. And they're welcome to take a shot at him as he approaches, but they don't. Because Jon Darcy is simply not afraid.

Shame the same can't be said for Lestrade.

His cigarette hand shakes and he's pale. Won't look at me but stares down at the factory. For a terrible second I'm afraid he's going to leave me here, or worse than that manage to get himself hurt. And yet he nods and manages, "So what's the plan?"

"Make life as difficult as possible for Vauxhall Cross. Go down, retrieve Mies. You arrest her for the National heist, get her back to town. Say nothing about the Americans or any of this. Don't worry, she'll play along. Don't give her up. No matter what they tell you, do not give her over to them. And if she asks about somebody called Jeremy, just tell her…"

Darcy's inside now. I imagine he's moving quietly down hallways, room to room, overlooking the factory floor, looking for her. The person he's risking his life for, the one who's suffering to protect him. People can be so, so strange.

"Tell her what? Sherlock?"

I lead off, and hold back a tree branch for him to follow. "…Tell her you've never heard of him. Coming?"

He does a good deal of complaining along the way. You get this. It's how some people manage fear. Just act as though the situation in itself is out to get you in every possible way. Be the put-upon hero. That alright, I can tune that out.

But it's clear he's never done this before. Nervous. Keeps convincing himself he hears things – a scream, a second car, glass breaking. And he thinks, for an insane minute, we're going in the front. No. Darcy can go in the front because he's expected. I explain, then, as I guide him towards an alternative entrance, that this isn't a police operation. He can't just flash his I.D. and they'll all fall over fawning, it just won't happen. This is about retrieving a different suspect by any means necessary. This is, as he so eloquently put it, vigilante stuff.

I shouldn't have said that out loud. He's looking a touch grey, getting that dimness in the eyes that means his head is swimming, dizzy. Sick.

"Right thing, Lestrade. Remember that."

They are like an incantation, like magic words. 'Right thing'. He believes in the right thing, and it's not the enforced deportation of a British citizen into the hands of her would-be executioners. Whatever else is nauseating him, that part is clear, and he's steady enough to accept a leg-up to a large window over one of the old production lines. It's a safe entrance; nobody really has their secrets and hostages and meetings out amongst the machinery. It's too big a space with too many places to hide, indefensible. So there's no one about when he drops over the other side and reaches back for my hand.

"Now _that_," I tell him, "You've done before."

"We've all been locked out of the house, Sherlock."

"Yes, but with an accomplice?"

"Well, I never said who's house now, did I?"

"You'll be a D.I. in _no_ time…" He takes no offence; either he's getting used to the humour or, more likely, he still knows where I stand. I'm still junkie scum. I'm helping, and I'm useful, and I'm getting him somewhere, but when it all comes down (and it will), I'm still junkie scum and he's still a bright, shining star at the Met. He knows I'm no threat to him, never could be.

Not that I would. It's hardly the point, but I wouldn't do that.

He's asking me if there's a particularly clever way to do this, a way to search or locate that's going to be especially effective. And because he asked, I'm trying to think of one. And I wouldn't do that; that other thing, from before, the sort of blackmail, defamation-of-character kind of thing, I wouldn't do that.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Taxis are brilliant. They're large, they control the road, you can pull over in mad places, they're automatic, _such_ a drive. I have to get a taxi of my own. And you're sitting out there thinking, this is hardly the time to be making car purchase decisions, but the fuck else do you want me to think about? This place is a good way out town and I don't know what's waiting for me. Still haven't heard from Darcy. This place could be a fecking bloodbath already. Danielle could be in a suitcase getting packed off to Africa and Darcy? 'Oh, jeez, Mister, he come in shootin', it was self-defence, but we'll send you his head in this here cooler just so's you know…'

That's what I _was_ thinking about.

Now I am thinking about the relative merits of driving a taxi around London. Merit #12: nobody would pay any attention to me. If you drive a front-of-the-line Jag, or even a rust bucket Mini, you'll be noticed. But a cab, in London? You could be a fecking _pigeon_ and get more attention.

You will note that, in Merit #12, compared to the other set of thoughts, nobody ends up dead. Especially not me.

That's another thing that could happen at the far end of this. And I'm out of merits, so I'm just not thinking about that. Or I wasn't, anyway…

Darcy's already here. The Americans tucked their plain black and brown cars around the side, but the blue Micra out the front is about right. But he's not the only one. I'm still fifty yards up the road, pulling over the rise, when I see them. Kill the engine, roll back a bit out of sight. Two of them. One tall, lean figure and one a bit shorter, a bit better put together. But the first is clearly the scholar of the pair. His fat mate is content to go charging on in the front door. I mean, I know the man with the gun watching the entrance is well-hidden, I know he can't _see_ him, but any halfway intelligent person knows he's there. It's the skinny one that pulls him back.

I wait for them to wander round the back instead, and in that brief minute I wonder who they are, who they might be. But they're creeping about, and they're inexpert. Even if they _are_ involved, they can't be important. And if they _are_ important, they look simple enough to deal with. So when they're out of sight I put them from my mind, kick up the taxi again.

Me, I do what Darcy did.

He walked in with his head held up because he's still a target to be captured. They're ready to cleft him in twain should it come to that, but they're a hopeful bunch, pioneer spirit and all that; they hold out hope he's come to hand himself in.

Me, I walk in with my head held high _in order _not to be killed. I arrive, out of nowhere, unknown to them until I open my mouth, in a taxi, in the middle of the countryside, and walk in like I own the place. In short, I confuse the fuck out of them and nobody shoots. I've told you this before; when you look like you're in charge, everybody assumes you're in charge, whether it makes any sense or not.

Then I hide before anybody can come down and greet me.

I just keep moving. I'm listening to hear what direction they're coming from, where the radios are, who they're shouting to. Where I am for now isn't all that important, so long as I'm getting closer to the noises. And I am, y'know.

They've avoided all the unnecessary drama of factory floors and loading bays, all that usual bollocks. They're tucked away somewhere safer and quieter. But they're in constant radio contact, looking for both me and Darcy, and I can hear the concentration, the blasts of white noise, their unintelligible accents garbled by bad reception.

Then, one of them is very close indeed. Matter of fact, though I hear it on the radios, I hear it more as an actual voice and right behind me.

"I've got one," says this voice.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck_fuck_," says me, and turns to face the bullet.

He's the pretty boy of the team, this one, all carved and pumped and Mexican-dark with his hair in one eye. Something tells me it probably doesn't affect his aim very much. It annoys me a bit because, if I'm going to be shot in the face, I'd like to be shot in face by someone who really had no choice in his career. The big ugly lug with all the scars and alopecia who really couldn't have been anything else but a bastard hired gun, y'know? Not some once-and-future underwear model all too aware of the Freudian significance of his own gun.

"In my defence-" I begin, but he starts to squeeze the trigger and that's it, it's all over, and I hear the bang, and another bang very close behind it, a perfect, controlled little burst of two, and then I'm wondering how fast sound travels and if I really should have heard that if he was going to shoot me in the head and then it hits me. It hits me, and it's a realization, not a bullet.

Fabio there wasn't the one who fired.

Fabio, as it happens, is on the ground, with two bullets and not much brain inside his skull.

And Jon Darcy is stepping out of the hallway that crosses us, pointing at me with his painted Saint Sebastian gun and saying, "I thought I told you not to be here."

"The Brits are on their way."

"You're fucking joking… How?"

"I don't know, but you don't have long."

So he comes over, kneels down next to Fabio and unhooks the radio from his jacket. Then he picks up the gun that was just about to kill me and skids it across the floor to my feet. "You know how to work that?"

Just about. Rather not, actually, if it's all the same.

But I've a feeling saying that out loud wouldn't be a good idea, so I pick it up and clear the chamber, in order to demonstrate that yes, I'm familiar. I think Darcy can see it, though; that I don't want to. It must be in how I'm standing, how I'm holding it. He says, "Look, they're not going to hesitate, and I'm only one person; I can't be looking out for you. You're brave to come, but it's not enough. You have to get out of here too."

"I can manage myself, alright?"

"See that you do."

Fabio's radio crackles. They want to know where he stands, who fired the shots, what's his status…

Darcy lifts it up and presses the button. "Change of plans, lads," he says, "Danielle, this is no time to be quiet, love."

"I thought of that," I tell him quietly. "Won't work, they gagged her."

Darcy shakes his head, puts a finger to his lips.

He needn't listen so careful, though-

"_Tiger_!" The shout, when it comes, is massive, all pain and relief and courage. It comes echoing down the hall, filling it, and it's not far away. But she suffers for betraying her location; there's a thunk and a raging, profane flood follows on, cursing every one of them and all their mothers.

Darcy straightens himself, square in the centre of the corridor, checks on his gun one last time. And as he readies, he half-smiles and explains, "Girl's got the strongest tongue you'll ever come across. She could _untie_ that gag, if they'd turn it round for her."

"…I didn't need to know that, Jon."

"Don't ask how I do. You ready?"

With _almost_ a laugh, "_No_."


	41. Capture The Flag:Hide And Seek

_Jim_

Start of this week I was going to blow my brains out, remember that? Funny how nearly having someone do it for you can get you going again, it really can.

Darcy says the holding room has a gallery. Used to be some kind of reception, apparently. Anyway, it's the weak spot. I'm to double back, go up a floor and find my way out onto it. I'm not to worry about guns pointing at me anymore; I'm not to make myself known until he's already done so downstairs, and all those boys are going to be concentrating pretty hard on the gent who just killed yet another of their mates.

And this is alright, y'know. Bit of carnage. Bit of subterfuge. Bit of capture-the-flag, even if the flag is a loose collection of neuroses and psychosomatics held together with sex and sarcasm. It should come as no surprise that I couldn't honestly give a fuck about Miss Cruel and Unusual '05, but it's all the name of continued existence. All a bit of fun. This is the game we're playing; don't let them kill her, leave in possession. Get her in the back of the taxi, as it were.

I get up the stairs without meeting another Fabio.

I'm working my way back towards the sounds when I hear the radios again. Closer than before, but turned the other way. And this time, nobody turns out to have a gun to my head. He's up ahead, just around the corner. Saying it's all clear up here. Which is good, because then nobody's going to suspect for the next little while. I step up, put Fabio's gun in the small of his back and push him forward. "I'm Jim," I tell him quietly, "I'm the one that got Jimmy."

"Got Steele too," he laughs back. "I ain't stupid."

Oh, typical. That's been Danielle, y'know. I'll bet everybody and his uncle's done murders, except for her. She'd tell them anything. Well, there'll be a time to discuss all that later. I say nothing to the current hostage, but I have him lead me to the gallery door and keep the gun tight against him so I'll know if he's planning on turning.

It's actually a bit strange that he doesn't seem to be doing so. He seems almost content to go ahead with this. If he tries anything, the greatest cost to me is the dry cleaning bill, but he's not trying anything. He stands quietly just behind an open door. Just beyond, the echo of a two storey room, of old, dusty air and a wall of glass and tiled floor.

Then a crash – Darcy putting the door in. Lots of guns making lots of little preparatory noises. I push my hostage out onto the gallery, just in time to see what's really going on, what's really happening.

It's not Darcy. The guns aren't trained on Darcy.

The guns, three of them, are trained on an old canvas sack, lying lumpy and still on a former reception desk. Danielle.

She started to say, on the phone, 'Don't let him come, they'll k-' _Kill_. And me and Darcy both thought she meant him, both thought she was scared for her old friend, but that's not it at all. The very fact that he's even put in an appearance shows he cares about her very much. One false move, and she's dead. They think they can force him to go with them willingly. That's a contradiction in terms, but you see what I mean.

He swears when he sees it. I've told you before how he panics. He can't shoot his way around this one and nothing else makes any sense.

So I throw my hostage up against the rail, move the gun to the base of his skull and call their attention.

"Which one of you's Stryker? Or did Jon get Stryker in the hall before?"

Two of them stay staring at the unmoving sack. The third stops to look up at me. And it's nice to see him flinch, realizing I've got one of his, but flinch is all he does.

"I'm Stryker."

"Ah, Mr Cunt, good to finally meet you. In the flesh, as it were."

He shakes his head. "You've got no leverage here, my friend."

I lean forward to address my hostage, "Did you hear that? He never liked you anyway."

"Not really," Stryker adds. But it's all face, all bravery.

"How many of you came over here from the homeland, Cunt?"

"Ten."

"And the four of you here in this room, you're the last? That's not a great return, now, is it? Why risk losing another one?"

"I told you. I don't like him. Go ahead, kill him. And I'll personally put a bullet between Miss Mies' pretty grey eyes."

"Go ahead, I don't like her either. Only don't kill Darcy, I've got a job for him."

"And what's that?"

"Hunting down any of you that get away from here and personally putting bullets between all your pretty eyes."

Stryker laughs at that. That's alright, it was a joke, he's allowed to laugh. Well, it was a joke _now_. But if any of them survive and escape, it's not a joke anymore. That's what I need Darcy for.

Then Stryker makes a very good point. He says there are four of them, all armed, and only two of us. There's no way we can take them all on without somebody getting the chance to fire wildly into the sack.

The sack is, by the way, unconscious. Or it had better be, because Danielle awake and alive would be screaming distractions for us by now.

For a terrible second, it's just stalemate. It's just Darcy holding off the nameless twosome and me and Stryker with nothing more to do than stare each other down.

But if you recall, there are other people in this building. They went round the back and they weren't important.

Now they're important.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

These bloody noble types… They're useful so long as they're under the thumb but sometimes, just _sometimes_, it gets the better of them. Like now, for instance. Now, when it's prudent to listen and wait for the opportunity rather than _walk out in front of all the bloody guns_, right this moment is when Lestrade remembers he's a knight with a little _thing_ for the Right Thing and walking out in front of all the bloody guns is exactly what he intends to do.

He pushes the door open. Steps out starting to say something about how he's a police officer and nobody's going to get shot. Then, in order to be true to his word, he has to hit the floor. I reach out to pull him back to safety and I see it all.

The one called Stryker, the one holding off the man on the gallery, he turned to shoot at Lestrade. With him otherwise engaged, the gentleman above disposed of his hostage by simply shoving him over the rail. This has left him free to run the length of the gallery and drop his gun to Jon Darcy. Thus armed with two handguns, Darcy kills two perplexed suits and trains the guns on Stryker while the other man is hauling himself up from the floor.

He walks out around the desk, puts himself between them and what I can only presume to be the hostage. I haul Lestrade back in behind the door.

"There's nothing more we can do here-"

"He shot them," he's saying.

"-We need to go back to the car park and head them off if you want to have any chance of leaving with the prize."

"And that other fella. He just flipped him over…"

No. No, thank you. A copper in shock is quite literally the last thing I need.

In the room, they're talking, but that's not going to last for long. Not now that it's two for two and Darcy's in control. Nothing we could do would either help or hinder what's going to happen in there. If we want Mies, we have to meet them after this point. I explain all this to Lestrade as carefully and as quickly as I can, and in the process I guide him back to his feet. It'd be much easier just to lift him, but please don't forget I'm a damaged man. Please don't, because I haven't. I can't. Every time I breathe a little crackle of red fires through that rib, and the high is fading sufficiently for the bruises to ache.

I got run over once while I was high. The good thing about the drugs is that you don't feel it, and you can pick yourself up and wander on home without bothering anybody's insurers. This is actually worse than the morning after I bounced off a car. I should tell Mies that, if she lives. She'd like that.

As best I can put it together, while Lestrade and I are rounding the outside of the building, Darcy's accomplice from the gallery made his way downstairs and confirmed the contents of the sack.

There's a cab parked with the cars now. That wasn't there when we came in. Maybe later on I'll wonder who he is, what he knows. Could it be that I was right about there being someone on the other side of the mirror? I try to put the thought away, but I find myself watching. He comes out the front doors. Not carrying Mies. Not even supporting her.

She's not out of the sack. They just cut out the bottom of it so she can walk. But she's shaky, damaged. And yet there's no arm around her. Her head lolls and no shoulder supports it. No, this isn't right. He's not a friendly party. He must have fooled Darcy, but this part is all wrong. This time I'm the one who nearly steps forward too soon. Lestrade pulls me back.

"Let him get in the car, first. Easiest to get him out from behind the wheel."

"…You like the look in a suspect's eyes when they thought they'd gotten away with it."

"Yeah, I do."

"It wasn't a question…"

So I stand back, and we watch. He opens the back door. Mies doesn't even make it to the seat, but sits down hard on the floor. The rest should be quick. He bundles her in and drives away, of course. Before the Intelligence lot show up, before Darcy can come and ask about what happened to his partner, _now_ while they're alone. But that's not what happens. In fact, they seem to be in conversation. Mies is barely conscious, holding her head, eyes shut. They talk and they talk, and she's saying the same thing over and over again.

Then she brings up a bare foot and kicks hard against his thigh, screams that one thing loud, "_Go and get Jon_!"

Now he bundles her in. Shuts the cab door again.

But he doesn't get in and drive away. He charges back towards the doors, apparently to do as she asks. Lestrade draws me back around the corner where he won't see. Asks in a hush, "What's all that about?"

I don't have answers. Later I'll wonder about that man and where he fits into all of this. He had a teetering woman by his side and all he gave her was the lightest glancing touch to keep her on track. And yet he won't leave without the second accomplice. They're all in it together, but how, and how much does he know and who is he?

Later, though. I try again to put the thought away, but the high is fading hard now that I'm allowed to ache and it's hard not to think about the immediate things.

I push Lestrade away from the wall, back towards the verge we came down and the road above. "Go. Go and get the car. I can get Mies. She'll come with me."

"What makes you think that?"

Because she trusts me. No matter why I did it, or what I might have done to her since then, still saved her from Jean d'Arc. From burning. I don't tell Lestrade any of this, but something of it must show. He turns and runs, sticking to the long grass, making a break for the tree cover above. Not that there could be too many guns still blazing inside, but he's not taking any chances.

I watch him go, and start towards the taxi.


	42. Subterfuge:Suspicion

_Sherlock_

She gasps when I open the door, but the fear is brief. It passes and she stays curled inside the sack, holding it close around her neck. "Clothes just _fall_ from you, don't they?" Mies' laugh is bitter. They stripped her. That's why she's gone so suddenly prudish, pulling even her feet up under the sackcloth. She didn't choose it this time. I start to shrug off my coat. She protests, but still takes it.

"Are there any fags in here?"

"Sorry, no." I sit down on the edge of the floor and turn my eyes away. Mies starts climbing out of the sack. But it's too much for her, too painful. Her limbs crackle and won't work and eventually I turn to help her. If I hold her by the shoulders she can kick off the sack. "Listen to me, Danielle. I know you're hurt, but you're still not safe."

She shakes her head. "Nice try. You're with that copper tried to make himself heard, aren't you?"

Can't help but smile, "I thought you were unconscious."

"I was in and out. I heard the guns. Did he make it, your friend?"

"He's fine. And yes, I _was_ going to take you back to him, but we won't, we'll just go, but you're not safe. MI5 are on their way."

"My people are here, Jeremy…" And I wish she hadn't said that, because now she blinks, touches her head as though trying to keep it balanced on her neck, turns it very slowly to look me in the eye. "What are _you_ doing here?"

I would answer her. Honestly, I would, I would tell her everything from the beginning, from being arrested and spotting her gallery cover-up, from Joan of Arc becoming John Darcy, all the stupid accidents and the impossible twists, everything, but there's no time. There are cars coming, two of them. I stand out of the cab and look. Carpool vehicles, uniform black, tinted windows. Too late.

"That's them, isn't it?" I nod. It's too hard to say it out loud. "Please. Look at the state of me, Jeremy. Don't give me over. Her hand reaches out as if it wants to take mine.

I watch a moment longer as the cars approach. Mycroft will be with them, wait and see. So I lean back into the cab, give her the hand she wants. With my other arm around her I pull her towards me. Mies struggles, cries, thinks I'm handing her in. I haul her over and tell her quickly, confidentially, "Stay up against this door. Don't move, don't speak." She looks up like she can't quite believe what I'm saying.

Breathes, "I never have any idea what you're doing."

"That makes two of us," but I know what I'm doing when I reach behind her ear and tug loose a few long dark hairs. I get out, close the door on her and lean against it. I don't block so much of the window without my coat, but if she stays tucked in and I don't give her away, she'll make it.

Mycroft's car pulls up first. Just him in that one. Well, him and the P.A., who's at least five says into her job and has yet to chuck in the towel. Might be a record. As he gets out I point immediately across to the factory. "Mies and Darcy, the Americans, everybody. Go around the back, there's a glass door, you can't miss them."

He relays the message to the next car. Four of them, in total, which is one for every man left alive in the building. That gets rid of all of them.

Mycroft stands tall, watching them go. Overseeing the mission from a safe remove, and not turning his eyes to me once. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"Being extremely helpful?"

"No. And the taxi?"

"Nothing you can haul me up for, I'm afraid. Oh, but I found this in the door hinge." I hold up Danielle's hair. "This is just how they got her here. The other car is Darcy and an accomplice. I'm afraid I didn't recognize him."

"This is not your job, Sherlock."

"But I'm so good at it."

"Enough. Wait in the car." No. Not just now, thanks. If I move there's a brave chance you'll be having a look in the back of this cab. Not for any reason, just because I did it first. I don't think I'll go anywhere just yet.

"Alright," I say. "But there's one other thing you should know." He sighs. Like he just can't be bothered, like nothing I ever tell him is true. I've never understood this. If anyone else was stood here with information for him, he'd be all ears. He won't even ask for it, but there isn't time to tease him, "There's a detective in that car at the top of the hill. He knows a lot, but not too much. Best speak to him before he finds out anymore."

Mycroft glares, "Are you responsible for this?"

"There was nothing to talk about in the car."

And he takes off. Tempting as it would be to stop and see him negotiate the long grass and steep incline, there are still things to accomplish. For instance, his driver has gotten out for a cigarette, leaving his window open. The P.A. is in the passenger seat. The hierarchy's all wrong; they must have picked Mycroft up in a hurry. I lean through, hanging in the window. "Has he driven you mad yet?"

She smiles like a cat, frighteningly serene. Too cool to notice me removing the keys from the ignition, slipping them into my trouser pocket. "Not just yet. You?"

"Oh, many years ago."

"Funny, you don't look mad."

"God love you for a liar." Keys obtained, I get in at the back. I need to keep her talking, and preferably looking at me – Darcy and the strange accomplice have just come out the front doors.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

"You're a sick man, Darcy."

"Fuck off. You'd have done the same."

"Not like that, I wouldn't have."

Darcy shot the last two Americans in the head. Even Stryker, and _this_ annoys me more than anything else, because I made a promise to that man. I told Stryker he was fucked. I expressly told him he was fucked, and Darcy lets him off with two in the crown, the fucker. Now, don't get me wrong, Darcy's still a top man, and he's a gent, and he's a real professional, but there's a time and a place for the cool, calm act. There's a time and place for what _I_ wanted to do, which was-

"Oh, _fuck_."

_No_, not quite.

What Darcy is actually referring to is the black 'We're with the government' cars parked behind the taxi.

"They weren't there when I came in," I tell him, very quickly, like it matters.

"And you wanted to stop for torture."

"Not torture. Punishment. She's _your_ mate, you should be sticking up for me."

"Whatever. Is there anybody in those cars, can you see?"

There is. There's a woman in the front of the one closest, but she's talking to somebody in the back. Darcy puts one of the clips he stole in his gun, checks he still has one in his back pocket. This, it would seem, is enough to deal with any trouble from the car. He goes ahead of me, with his back to the doors, edging sideways. Surveying the area. He thinks the rest of them have gone to cut us off at the back, which means now is the only time to get away. I see him eyeing the car he brought, which is closer, which would probably still spark again beneath the steering column, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Danielle's in the taxi. She could hardly walk."

"I know. It was just a glance of thwarted longing. Learn what that looks like, by the way."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He breaks cover, charging forward from the doors. The gun is ready, but not raised. I'm about a half-step behind. "Are you listening to me?"

"Is this really the time?"

"Don't say it if you aren't going to answer to it."

"Will you _shut up_, we're trying not to be _heard_."

He slips along the far side of the cab, keeping an eye on the woman in the car. Which is easy for him, but I've got to get to the driver's door, right round the other side.

It's a fella she's talking to.

In the back of the other car, I mean. Pale, sick-looking fella, nothing very distinguished. But I've got the strangest feeling he knows we're here. You look at him and he's too earnest, too determinedly charming. He's distracting her. I slide into the car under his good auspices, asking myself who the hell he might be and with neither time nor inclination to take the question seriously. I don't even dare close the door all the way until I've got the engine going.

The woman goes crazy, and she suspects her conversational partner, but we're leaving that far, far behind.

In the back, Darcy's hauled Danielle off the floor. Trying to hold her, but she struggles against him. Saying, "Where's Jeremy?" Delirious, more than likely. It's not uncommon in her situation. She's gone to her safest place, which seems to be some repeat-performer called Jeremy. It's hard to hold it against her when she's in distress.

"Never heard of him, love," Darcy tells her. Soft, calming, like he's talking to an animal.

"Then where's Jim? I want Jim."

His eyes lift and meet mine in the mirror. "Jim's a bit busy, love. He's driving, getting us out of here, okay?"

She stops struggling. Sighs to herself. She sits against him, curled up, her legs across his and her face in his shoulder. Which is okay, because she needs that and I can't give it to her. The last time I saw her she was paper-white but for a fading tan. Now she's shades of red and grey. They put her in the sack so she wouldn't bruise. It doesn't actually work, but all these fuckers have seen _Full Metal Jacket_. But they took a picture before they put her in. It's pretty standard procedure; they have a picture to show the state they found her in so nobody can accuse them of… Of cruel-and-unusual.

That gash on her face was already there.

I slide back the glass, take the Gilè drawings in their dry theory book and pass them back to Darcy. "Here. Maybe that'll cheer her up."

"Jim?" Her voice. Weak, like I've never heard it, but it's still hers. "S'that you?"

"Yeah. Why'd you send me to a fucking underwear shop, by the way?" She giggles into Darcy's shoulder. "Awfully funny, dear. Hey, where'd you get the coat?"

A whole long minute passes. It probably doesn't feel like so long for her. It's hard to make up a lie when your head is spinning.

Even as we're all sitting here, Danielle is developing like a polaroid, the grey shading down to mauve and violet.

"It was lying back here," she says. Lifts her head enough to look at the back of mine. "And the whole sackcloth-and-ashes _look_…"

Darcy pulls her in against him again, holding her. "It's not you, like, is it, Dani?"

"Jon'll tell you. I don't do apology. I don't do that whole repentance bit. I never was a Catholic, St James… As to the coat, somebody must have left it behind back here."

Not impossible. Certainly not impossible. But she's hanging onto that coat. Pulling it around her, turning the collar up, hitching up her knees. It's giving her as much comfort as Darcy is, and more by far than I could have.

Makes me wonder who this Jeremy is.


	43. Whole:Hole

_Jim_

By some miracle, we reach the safe house intact. No car chase, even. Was quite looking forward to a bit of evasive driving. But it's all to the good, I suppose. Danielle's fallen asleep, tangled up with Darcy, who has repeatedly risk waking her to check the coat for me. I just want to know. It might be important. All those pigs and ghosties hanging about, it could have come from anywhere. We could be being tracked, maybe that's why they didn't give immediate and fervent chase. But he just kept telling me to shut up, any time she stirred. He holds onto her like his own child and any time she even half-wakes he tells her he's sorry, he would have been quicker, he should have picked her up himself last night. I closed the partition glass in the end. It just felt like I shouldn't be listening. She was talking to him, too quiet to make out, but she was murmuring, nuzzling against him. He was stroking her hair. Anyway, my neck was starting to itch and my fingers kept seizing and I didn't want to hear anymore.

Darcy carries Danielle asleep from the car to the house, quick and surreptitious, but it's the middle of the afternoon. All my safe houses are in good areas. For one, no curtain-twitchers, and this time of day everybody's at work. For another, on the very, _very_ off-chance that times ever get hard, property's always an investment.

There's another driver waiting in the hallway to take the vehicle away.

He lays her out on the couch. Wants to get a look at the damage, and so starts to unbutton the coat. A hint of her begins to appear; sickening, imperfect body. Time on the run taking its toll; looking skinny, shades of blue and grey and fever yellow, shining where sweat has been and dried and a stubbly shadow under the arm. No time to take care of herself. For once, though, I try not to reel; almost quite glad to see it. Darcy's concentrating on her and when the coat comes free I'll be helpful and take it away and give the pockets a good going over.

But as he starts to pull it open she seizes in her sleep, grabs it tight across her, sits up fast. For a second, she's still in captivity and we can only be a threat. "Oh, my boys," she sighs. Her relief is beautiful through the cut on her face and the swelling around the eye.

Darcy's all business. "I need to see what they've done to you."

"It's all cosmetic, tiger," she says. Puts her hand on his face and a second later throws her arms around him. Looks at me when she pulls back. I keep my hands in my pockets and her expression shifts, just very slightly. She nods to herself. Darcy protests, but she stands up in spite of him. "Bathroom?"

"First at the top of the stairs," and I have to hold a hand out to Darcy behind her back, because he seems determined not to let go of her for a second. But that's all she needs is a second, and so does he. I tell him to go and start coffees instead and tell Danielle I'll send someone for her clothes.

"Yeah. Call Hugo, tell him to send Ruby."

"Ruby-_his -_Ruby? The daughter?"

"Yeah. She'll know what to bring."

"Junkie-Ruby?"

"She knows better than to steal from me. I want to talk to her anyway."

Whatever she wants. That much is owed to her. I set it all running and find Darcy in the kitchen. His hands are shaking. Which with the lack of sleep and the recent adrenaline rush is only to be expected, but they haven't been shaking until now. He can hide it when he thinks anybody's looking. For instance, I clear my throat and the trembling stops. So I go up and take the kettle off him before he does himself an injury.

Say, "What's the matter?"

And he, quick as you like, like he was only waiting for the question, "They would have killed her."

"Well, _yeah_." That is_ rather_ the point of kidnapped leverage, is it not? Can't say I see his point. "Only… they _didn't_. You sorted that, mate."

"Only because you walked in. What would have happened if you hadn't-"

"But I _did_, though. You're looking at this the whole wrong way."

Him, angry, doing his pacing laps again, "Oh, then how _should_ I look at it?"

"Um… as a _win_? Maybe? Dunno, Jon, it might make you feel better…" He rages. I feel it. He's about to fucking _punch_ me, and he only just holds off. I turn to see what's coming, but he's sitting himself down, one fist clenching and opening. "…I beg your pardon, Darcy?"

"You saw the state of her and you saw how close we cut it-"

"And yet here we all are alive and healing. Nah, sorry, it still counts." He rages one more time. This time it breaks. Turns relieved and hysterical, breaks in a laugh. "Yeah," I say. "Right and proper reaction right there."

To hell with the coffee. I still put one out for Danielle, but for him and me I reach up into the top of the cupboard. I keep all these places equipped, y'see. Decked out like a bed-and-breakfast, though with a few extra considerations. Danielle, for instance, the night of her National Gallery fiasco, could have returned _here_ to a fine Irish whiskey, rather than having to wait for me to buy them for her the next day. Now, nothing's finished and certain just yet, so nobody's getting pissed, but the one. Maybe two. Just enough to keep Darcy laughing. I like him better when he's laughing than when he's thinking about strangling me.

He settles himself talking about his war wounds. He's got a great big flower of a gunshot right through his left shoulder he got in Afghanistan. Starts telling me all about how wrong it went and how he's got one working arm, two dead mates and a face full of Taliban guns, how he got out, how this gent doctor stitched him up even though he was supposed to be going home between tours, had to wait a week for the next flight. Tells me how they're still in touch and that's good. This is a man who honours his debts. He understands and appreciates loyalty, camaraderie, the way a bond can build up over years or just suddenly be there. If I don't take the piss then neither will he.

Of course, he still hasn't said yes to the offer of work, not officially.

I'd broach the subject again, only Danielle appears. Freshly showered, in fluffy white robe and slippers with a towel around her hair.

Darcy even manages a joke for her. "It's alive. _It's al -_"

"Fuck off. Caffeine. Nicotine."

He laughs, and I go about the fetching and carrying. Nobody has a cigarette for her. Danielle tries to put her head down on her arms, but she keeps rolling onto the cut cheek. She sinks low in her chair instead, puts her chin to her chest like a bird. Which reminds me-

"Who slit you open, Danielle?"

"Jesse James and co, who else?"

But they didn't. I've got the polaroid in my jacket pocket. Of course they could have cut her up and taken the picture afterward. But I put the coffee down in front of her (lovingly, generously spiked), ignore her 'strong, dark and Irish' quip and excuse myself. I get halfway down the hall before she calls after, "Coat's hanging on the back of the bathroom door. There's nothing in the pockets, though."

I look back over my shoulder and she's giggling to herself. Darcy's smirking, trying _not_ to laugh, and I appreciate the effort. I go back to them. What choice do I have?

She shrugs; "Thief finds strange coat, doesn't try to get anything out of it? What planet are you on?"

And it's like I said before, there are still a lot of problems, still a lot to get done. But Danielle toasts me and my intervention, and tells Darcy to put his scars away, and for a little while there's nothing. And it's not boring. Part of me understands it's just release after all the stress, just recovery time, just a necessity and the rest of me is happy to take the win and not care. Can't remember the last time I made coffee for somebody other than me, and it doesn't matter, doesn't feel wrong. Thinking to myself this is alright actually, bit pissed off that it's all bound to go mental again before the day's out. Thinking that for now I should probably just stop thinking. I got _toasted_, for fuck's sake, this is great…

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I swear to God I'm going to burn this flat.

It's an _extreme_ reaction, certainly, and almost assured to take out half the building and result in great injury, loss of life and the laughter of hard-hearted insurance agents, but I think it's worth it. And I'll be here, in the bath. Either I'll boil alive or the smoke will start what drowning finishes. One way or another, no consequences.

I hate this place. Mycroft dumped me back here once he was finished with Lestrade, once he'd finished with his driver, once he'd set somebody to finding the taxi. Don't think I got off scot free, though. I had the whole ride back to the city to listen to him. And I _do_ mean listen. Couldn't tune him out. Getting to that point again. We passed one-hundred and forty seven lamp posts. The numbers on them totalled four thousand and nineteen. The P.A. was disturbed in the middle of her morning routine in order to be dragged out to that factory; faint scent of mouthwash shows she got that far, but the perfume on her clothes was a day old. And she hates me now, because she knows I was talking to her while all the important stuff was going on.

So that's her.

Mycroft, well, that goes without saying. He knows I did _something_, he just can't figure out what exactly it is. He doesn't know why. Which is fine, actually, because I can't stand when he knows more about a thing than I do. Can't say I much care. I've learned everything I need know about his involvement; all of these facts can be condensed into the single statement that Mycroft _is_ involved. Deeply. There was no real cause for him to show up personally this morning. But he went in order to see everything for himself, to make sure. He wants all the facts first hand. No mistakes.

He said that a couple of times while he was talking at me. 'No mistakes'. And I know that phrase, recognize it very well. He's always said that, as long as I can remember. All things at one hundred per cent, at all times. School exams, games that were supposed to be fun, choosing Mother's day presents. Perfect. No mistakes.

He's always said that. He says it most frequently and most determinedly in the wake of a mistake.

Mycroft, you see, doesn't mess up. Therefore, when he _does_, it's usually on so grand a scale that the _Light Brigade_ would cringe.

I don't know exactly what he's done, but this is his case as much as it's Lestrade's or mine or Mies and Darcy's.

So where were we? That was Mycroft's aide, Mycroft… Who else?

Danielle Mies. She'll have figured out by now what brought me and a police officer to that factory. She maybe won't have all the details, won't know how we _knew_, but she has enough. The fug will be clearing. She'll be waking up. If I'm lucky, she'll have forgotten the conversation we had in the back of the cab. Maybe she'll just remember my coat and me distracting Mycroft for her. Maybe. I probably won't be lucky, though.

Sometimes I'm lucky. There was this one time I almost could have believed in fate, in a higher power, everything lined up so well. But that was a couple of days ago now and I've got a feeling all that sort of thing is over.

If I'm not lucky she'll remember every word, and it will all start to make a vague, disturbing kind of sense to her. She didn't hate me because I stole the drawings. She wanted them back, and wanted them very badly, but she didn't hate me for it. That was a lucky enough escape. Probably won't happen twice.

And it was because of me that MI5 were able to follow her that the Americans were able to kidnap her. If Darcy knows about me, and why would Mies lie?, he probably doesn't much care for me.

Mycroft's aide, Mycroft, Mies, Darcy.

Lestrade.

By the time I was unceremoniously punted from the Lexus to the door of this fetid little place, there was a message on my phone. Lestrade doesn't have a case anymore. Matter of fact, Lestrade's been suspended without pay pending a full investigation.

Never meant to do anything to him. Wasn't _thinking_. There was nothing else that would have gotten rid of Mycroft.

Haven't called him back yet. I should. Probably won't.

I went out again, right after that message. Thinking I was never coming back to this flat. Just turned around and went out again. But it was cold and I missed my coat and there were fourteen fly posters between here and the nearest Hugo's door, a man out wandering while somebody dear to him thought he was at a high flying job, a tall, elegant and rather elderly escort and a pickpocket disguised as a French tourist and I just couldn't manage it, couldn't stay out there among it all, couldn't be around them.

Scored. Couple of days' worth. Came back here. Two-hundred and fourteen tiles in this bathroom. The aide and the brother and the thief and the soldier and the man who was a cop and was a friend and now he's not, that's five.

Oh, and Molly Hooper's had a hell of a hard time over me. Six.

Ruby makes seven.

Mies had made an excellent point about my father. A posthumous eighth.

I have to stop counting. And there's only one way to stop counting. There's only ever been one thing that could stop the counting and the boredom. It occurs to me, very fleeting, very insidious, that heroin is the one thing that has never turned its back on me, never hated me. Of course it's not true. It's eating the linings of my heart from the inside out, working my liver to a paste, scarring and collapsing the veins of my inner left arm and hip, maintaining a set of permanent restlessness, muscular ache and occasional bouts of crippling, uncontrollable stomach cramps as the body tries to purge whatever poisoning it just _knows_ it must have ingested. And those are just the side effects I feel comfortable talking about.

But it's never not worked, either.

Once you get this idea in your head, it makes a home, and feels like home, and the tip of the needle finds home just above the crease of the elbow and I never get farther than number Eight. Which is alright, isn't it? Everybody must have about eight people who hate them. Surely that's normal. Surely that's alright. Everything's alright. Everything goes warm and gorgeous and alright, and then everything goes dead and heavy and numb and that's even better.

This is alright.

This is enough.


	44. Sea:Land

_Sherlock_

Somewhere a phone is ringing. It's not the first time either. A phone has been ringing periodically for… oh, some time passed now… Hard to tell. Watch is all the way over there on top of the cistern. Anyway, I don't know what time it was when I got into this bath. More than twenty minutes, because I'm all shrivelled up. More than forty because I'm starting to go sensitive. See? Even the mysteries aren't mysteries anymore. So with my toe I hook the chain and pull the plug out.

Phone's _still_ bloody ringing. It should be patently clear by now that I have no intention of answering. Whoever it is needs to pack up and move on, frankly.

Water seeps away. In an ideal world it would take everything with it, all the stink and the dirt and all the vile, fetid residue of these few days, this month, this year, this life. In an ideal world it would take me with it and feed me to the sewers. Maybe someday onward to the sea, but not yet. Who among us really deserves the sea? No, not yet. Fed as I am to the unfeeling sea, the sea would spit me out again. This, above all things, would be murderous. To know peace and have peace reject me, to be found beached amongst the weed and flotsam, well, I have that already. Every day, I have that, sometimes twice. Peace comes over me like the tide and will not take me with it when it leaves.

The water goes, but nothing else. The rest, it leaves. Including me. There is no ideal world. And an ideal world would be boring, I know, but in the ideal world there would be no boredom, there would be peace, and there would no cause for hate and thus no one could ever hate, and no one would ever feel the boredom to drive them to the rashness to drive the rest to hate, do you understand? Do you see it? Because it's not there, it's just not there, it's just not.

Much like the energy, the willing, to heave myself up out of the bath. I don't, in the end. I wait until I've air-dried a little, until I'm cold, then reach out and drag the towels in on top of me. I'll just stay here. I'll just curl up and the phone will stop ringing.

I can do that. If the counting starts up, or the sickness, I've got another hit over there with my watch just waiting. More than one actually. I told you before, a couple of days' worth.

And if the bloody phone would just stop ringing, the thought of a couple of days in a peaceful, deep pile cocoon here in the bath, that might just look like peace.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

There's a pizza coming and Danielle is sleeping and Darcy tells me this story. There's no scar to illustrate this one. He just tells it.

He tells how you have land. Everybody does. You're born, so you have land. You have where you were born. He's talking about king and country, of course, but I don't interrupt. Kinder to let him tell it than to say he doesn't need to. You should never pretend to understand what destroyed somebody.

He admits that, though everybody _has_ land, not everybody cares. He thanks God we're not all Scarlett O'Haras with our red-earth-of-Tara mentalities. Some people care about money, or work, or family. Some people care about friends. Some people care about the environment or technology or justice. Some people care about art.

"Or it's Star Trek," he says, "Or fucking _Lord of the Rings_. You name it, mate, there's somebody living for it."

But for some land is enough. More than enough, in fact, seeing that it gives you all those other things.

There was a fella once who cared about land, and in land he found money and work and purpose and brothers and happiness and belonging and all those fucking _sensational_ things. Land gave. Oh, God, yeah, it gave. Land had so much to put forth and this fella was getting more than his share and loving it. He took and he took and why shouldn't he take? It was all for him.

Land done favours.

"Favours," Darcy says, "aren't favours at all. They're just debts and worse debts than money."

But he loved land, this fella. And when anybody threatened what was his, what had given him so much, he got _rather_ riled up. Him and all the brothers and sisters given unto him by land felt the same way, and they fought tooth and claw for it all. They went to all the other places that offended them and they fought and they fought and they fought.

And then it had been a long time since they'd seen their own land. And really, they had given a little bit more in return than had been given to them. And there really wasn't anything waiting for them on the far side. The smartest of them, and this fella in the story, he's smart, started to realize that pretty sharpish.

Land gave him a dear close brother, but when it came his brother's turn to die, land let it go ahead and said nothing.

Land paid him, but not enough, and it took in hock all his family. It held onto his closest friend as collateral.

In the end, he'd been away from it so long, and seen so many other places, Darcy didn't feel like he had any land at all. He had lived for it, would have died for it, and now it was gone.

"And then it turned out the cunts killed my bloody mother and all, even before the rest." He pauses there and drinks to her memory. For a second I almost think he's finished talking. This was his story, this was what he felt I needed to know, and now he's done. Fair enough. It makes no odds to me and it's helped him to tell it. But he's not finished yet. He continues, "Or in short, Mr Moriarty, what kind of work did you have in mind?"

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Somewhere between a dream and a heart's desire I'm disappearing down a sink, and in the pipes beneath no phones ring and no one knows who I am. I pass Mycroft and he doesn't recognize me because I'm clean. Everything's the rosy colour of rusty water and I'm so bloody clean I glow as I go swimming down through the U bend and up into the air on the other side. Ruby doesn't recognize me either. She wants to dance, but I'm too busy right now getting back to the sea and she sort of understands. Wants me to call when I get there and give her directions. Then, strangely, she shows me the way, pointing over the ridge into the next pipe.

It looks like hell. It looks fast and impossibly steep and long and the water is fetid and it twists and turns and flips back on itself and I'll drown, I know I will, but who could keep from trying? It looks like the worst kind of waterslide, like when I was nine years old and I had to do it. Well, they threw me. School trip, they said, have to show some spirit and they took me by the wrists and ankles and threw me into it wrong way up. In fact, exactly like; it's got blue plastic sides and there are places where it's open and places where it's covered. And I didn't drown then so maybe, maybe, just maybe-

Lestrade catches me by the ankles and tips me over backward, like the American soldier going over the gallery this morning, but I don't just hit the tiles like he did, I tumble into the water and roll and keep rolling and it stinks and I'll drown, I will, I'll drown.

But I don't.

I roll out on the long flat chute at the bottom and lie there on my back.

The sky above is brilliant turquoise all around the sides, shading up to rich deep navy blue above, and the first stars just starting to come out. Those are beautiful. The last time I saw stars over my head was on the roof of the National Gallery.

_When all the world dissolves_, I heard that night, _and every creature shall be purified, all places shall be hell that are not heaven_.

And surely here, with rich, full night coming in, and clean, _oh God_, so clean and having been tested and tried and found so long wanting, here and now where I can hear the sea and almost feel it touch my feet as the waves come and go, surely this must be heaven.

Everything else must be hell.

I'll get up now and walk into the water and never be seen again.

I try.

Nothing happens. Can't move. Stuck where I am on my back. The stars are no less glorious, but I want the sea. Purified. I want to be purified. The stars are no less glorious. They glitter in and out. There are sixteen, no, twenty, no, twenty-four, no, twelve…

No. Please God, no…

* * *

><p><em><span>J<span>__im_

"So now that we're all fed and rested and the house still isn't surrounded," Darcy begins, after dinner, "maybe we should talk about what next?"

Danielle glares at him across the table. "I hate you."

"I know you do, love, but somebody had to say it."

She stretches her foot out and kicks him. But she doesn't look amused, doesn't look like she's playing. Neither me nor Darcy's said anything, but there's something annoying her. You'd expect that, of course, given how she spent last night. It's going on too long, though. She's ignoring that, won't talk about it. She's been happily applying ice all afternoon, strapped her own fractured fingers together, dressed that gash on her face herself. Physical damage clearly isn't an issue for her. But she's still tossing her head, still looks worried, and she's been avoiding this topic all day.

Time to push, I think, and Darcy won't do it.

"Spit that out before it chokes you, angel."

"Excuse me?" She tries to sound like she's no idea what I'm talking about, but it comes across too quick, too vicious.

"You know something we don't. That hole in your face, this fella stole the pictures, that _coat_-"

"Fuck's sake!" Darcy starts, "Will you leave her alone about finding that fucking coat? It was a coincidence-"

"Yeah, a _massive_ fecking coincidence-"

"Danielle hasn't done anything but get the shit kicked out of her and you're-"

She straightens, rearing up from the table like a black-and-white monster, "_Enough_!" She stretches and her spine crackles like somebody standing on bubble wrap. Tries staying upright. That regal, princess thing she does where she's commanding respect and nobody's allowed to argue with her. "_She_ has still got her tongue in her head, thank you all very much. There is, gentlemen, nothing to discuss. We still have plan A, totally servicible."

"You're concussed," Darcy tells her, "Plan A was persons-of-interest."

I raise my hands, "I'm not getting kidnapped again."

"You wouldn't do any good even if we did. Nobody's interested."

"Oh, thank you, Jon, I feel special, and like a valued member of this ad-hoc assemblage."

"Nobody has to get kidnapped," Danielle says. "Or hurt. I am eager for nobody else to be hurt again in this endeavour. It's a different person. A decent person. Nobody dangerous, not really."

Yeah. Sounds ideal. Sounds like a plan, Danielle. Only I know who you're thinking of and I don't know how you can say he's not dangerous. Him and me have never met, but I've seen what he's done to the two of you. We've all of us done our share of damage. We're all beaten and bruised here, there's not a one here now who can't take it, but those fucking cowboys Darcy took down this morning weren't the ones that sliced you from eye to jaw.

"No." Both of them look at me. She looks like she's about to spit in my face, like how dare I. Darcy looks like he's wondering _how_ I said that to her, like I'm his hero. "Take the fucking face off, Danielle, you're not going. Jon'll go, won't you, Jon?"

"It's out of the question. Jon has nothing but to put a gun to his head. It's too dangerous-"

"Oh, and what's _your_ proposition?"

"I'll rock up and fuck him senseless."

She only said that to shut me up. I'm disgusted to tell you it works. I've got nothing. Or not much, anyway, "I don't want you to."

"Very touching."

"Stop it. I don't want you-" But she shakes her head. Again I am shocked and disgusted to tell you that I actually stop talking.

"It doesn't matter what you want. It's not your call."


	45. Watching:Watched Over

_Jim_

Danielle is resolute. Darcy's on my side, but that doesn't change anything.

There's not even an argument. It's just us two telling her she's not going, that it's too dangerous, that if we stop and think there'll be another way, and her not listening.

"We're not waiting again. This has gone on too long. My way, we can be in Bora Bora morning after next."

Darcy, like we're not even supposed to be ganging up on her, "Hanoi."

"Bora Bora."

"Hanoi first. Let your bruises fade before you put your bikini on. Remember those?"

"Oh, _that's_ why I can't move…"

"So _don't_ move," I tell her. Point her back towards the sofa. She can lie there until she's better, or until we can get them out of the country. It tempts her. If I could I go around the table, pick her up by the shoulders and bring her through. Once I set her down with a cushion under her head, the argument would be over. All I'd have to do is make her comfortable, hold onto her for a minute or two, and all this silly business about running straight back into the belly of the beast will be forgotten.

Darcy should have thought of this too. He isn't making a move, though. He doesn't have the excuse that I do either, so I'm a bit upset with him, actually.

Waiting for one of them to come to their senses, there's a knock at the door. Not a third of a second and I'm on my feet, Darcy's got his gun in his hand and Danielle? Danielle laughs. "It's Ruby with my clothes."

I go to answer the door. Danielle shouts after me that she'll get it herself. I'm just going to check. Make sure it's who she thinks it is, make sure Ruby's on her own. Somebody has to be fecking _smart_; the way them other two get on it's a wonder they're not dead already. Actually, no, no, it's not, it's _me_; I interfered just in time. If it wasn't for me they'd be _well_ under the rowans. Honestly. Don't know why I bother.

Ruby's looking limp and relaxed. You can guess how she was paid for the errand. She's got a sports bag over one shoulder, and in an area like this where the kept women have all day to exercise themselves away to nothing, the whole heroin chic look doesn't stick out like it does elsewhere. She's alone, too; no lurkers on the street corners, no cars passing by. Ruby was a pretty good choice, glad I came up with that.

She sees me and is mute for a moment. Only time I ever see Ruby is when I'm taking fingers off her da, so naturally she's a bit stunned. Then her eyes cut over my shoulder and Danielle greets her. Eases me out of the way.

"Fakkin' hell, you and all?"

Danielle sighs, and her voice suddenly drops from the upper middle class right down. "Long night, ginge. Come in out the cold."

She turns. Ruby follows her straight up the stairs without a word to anybody else. Leaves _me_ to shut the door like a butler. Shuffling back to Darcy at the table. Even he's got his head in his hands by now, except when he throws one at the ceiling to indicate the footsteps above. "You know as soon as she's dressed she'll take off."

"She won't." I put a hand on the back of his chair to be comforting, "We'll tie her down if we have to." But the longer I try sitting there, the more it starts to sound like he's right. "She can't move fast enough to get out that door ahead of us."

"You're right. It'll be fine."

"She's liable to sit down on a bed up there and just clap out."

"Very true." You could maybe count to ten. Then I start to get up again. "No," Darcy says stretches out an arm to block my way. "You're not going up to listen to them. I'm worried too, but I draw the line."

"The fuck are you talking about? I need a slash, that's all."

It's enough of an excuse. Whether he believes me or not he lets me go. Very, very quietly up the stairs.

Through the balustrade, I get a glance into the front room. Danielle's leaning on the window ledge in unbuttoned jeans, trying to hook a bra. Her arms hurt too much. Ruby steps into help and suddenly the arms are fine, hooking back behind Ruby and taking from her back pocket a pink, glittering iPod.

"Knew I'd seen this before," Danielle says. Turns towards her shoulder, glancing in my direction, so I duck. "Who is he, Ruby? I mean, really. I have to go back there and I need to know."

"I don't know nuffink," Ruby tries. Danielle's got one of the headphones in her ear and her eyes shut, rolling.

"No shit, pigeon. This is important."

"Seriously. Sometimes he's about, sometimes he's not. He was at your flat the night they stole Treads. He's a fucking bastard; he takes the piss for fun. And he's a Smiths fan. That's all I have. I'd tell you more if I could." That's the truth; behind her back, Ruby is lingering. This concerned, sad look on her face. Before Danielle could even know she needs help, Ruby is ready with her t-shirt, easing her into it. Hands positioned for skin contact, however brief, however unnecessary. And for Danielle this is everyday stuff, this is beneath her notice, but for Ruby it's a big deal. They've slept together. It occurs to me suddenly, terribly, but it's all over them. Ruby bites her lips before she speaks, like she doesn't know if she ought to say it or not. Decides to risk it, "My turn. Why are you with Mr Moriarty?"

Ruby's scared. Danielle considers her answer for far, far too long. Even then, all I get is, "Well, he's very helpful."

Fair enough. I've done a lot for her, and I was never under any obligation, none at all. 'Helpful' is accurate. 'Helpful' is all she says. Not that I wanted her to say anymore, not that I could tell you what I _expected_ to hear but… Well, that wasn't it.

"Dani, be careful."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, he's fakkin' _evil._"

See, Ruby knows how to talk about a fella. Ruby knows how to express herself. None of this upper-class repression, none of this watching her every word, none of that from Ruby. Danielle _meant_ more than she actually said and now I'm stuck wondering what that was, but-_she's laughing_. At what Ruby said, she's laughing, why is she laughing, why is she laughing at Ruby saying I was evil, why is she shaking her head, what's wrong with the girl. "No, he's not."

Oh, I assure you, my dear, he most certainly is. And you should know that. Did he or did he not use your own psychological condition to torment you on three distinct and very effective occasions? Don't think just because I've been nice to you since then that I didn't fecking _mean_ it. Don't think the idea of peeling the flesh from your ribcage and cracking off each bone in turn that your heart might be better scored with hot needles in revenge for all the times you've inflicted that same torture on the unsuspecting and unwilling-

"Horrible, yes." That's better, I suppose. "Ruthless and merciless and wonderfully efficient, yes. A vile, remote, cyborg excuse for a being of flesh and blood-" Just because I've got better things to do than tumble about under _you_, y'bitch… "Yes. But not evil. Not yet, anyway. He's still got nerves to work on. Still got feelings to hurt. Someday, though. He might get saved but he probably won't allow it. So evil, someday… Yes."

I've heard enough.

To hell with her.

Whatever she wants. She can do whatever she wants. Who am I to try and help?

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I quite like it down here in the crash. Here in the cocoon, there is only one decision to make; should I be cautious and sensible with the remaining stash or not? Obviously there's a great case to be made for the smart approach. There always is. But the smart approach is just one more carefully measured hit, one more level half-satisfied high, another inevitable crash. That's coming anyway. And isn't it the smart approach that's brought me here? Every step of the way, it's been the smart approach. And how can I know that the less practical way of doing things wouldn't work if I've never tried it? In the interests of gaining the fullest possible scientific knowledge, this has to be engaged at _least_ once. In addition, I don't want just one nice easy hit.

I want it to go. All of it to go and stay gone this time.

To be clean. Fall and burn and rage and be destroyed to the atoms, that's the only way. You go so far the only way out is the far end.

One last trial. Survive this and live clean.

The light beyond the towels is killing and the world is cold, but it's worth it for this. This is the best way, the _only_ way, and it's taken me this long to think of it. No time to waste now. Hauling myself along the wall of the bath, I reach out for the needle and the gear and all of that is there. But no fine plastic. No dose. No, wait, there's one, when I look. But there should be three. One's no good, we've discussed this, we've been over this, _one_ is wrong. But it's all there is. How long have I been here? What have I already done?

The fact that it's wrong and not enough doesn't keep me from cook it, oviously. That's happening while I'm thinking about all this. Longing is thwarted, but not need. I'm a study in aestheticism; want is denied. Desire is put away with the wrong and the awful. Need is the only true thing.

I can do this with my eyes closed. In fact, I _do_ about half of it with my eyes closed. Can't seem to climb up out of the spiral, can't keep them open. Still nodding. It's hard to tell when I've been lying down so long. It must be hours and hours now. Still too soon for another shot and one more shot is still not enough.

It hits and everything goes red, and then dark. For the longest time I feel _everything_. I feel every end of every cotton thread in the towel. I feel every chip in the bath porcelain, my own hair, my fingernails, _everything_. My breathing is almost as loud as the water in the pipes within the walls. I can see nothing, but I know _everything_. Like the first time. The first time, almost, very nearly, was like this.

The black flashes red and then is a deeper black. I lie down again, or rather fall, and curl up. Hurts in a good way. Not thinking. Nothing.

A rush of air, a change in pressure, like somebody opening the bathroom door. Doesn't matter, who cares?

Fingers that might be mine and probably aren't ease the needle out of my arm. I try to count the hands I'm aware of and come up with five, but probably four. Two of them are mine. Must be someone else. Don't really care. Probably doesn't make much difference. One of the hands not mine sets the needle off to the side somewhere and the other one runs over and over my hair. Which is nice. Not a threat to me. Sensational feeling when you can feel it like I do.

"And there was me thinking you'd have to get up." It's a voice. I didn't say that. A voice like I know it but don't. Probably a good sign. Probably means this is somebody who's meant to be here.

But the hand is wrong. I reach up and bring it down to my face. The end two fingers are taped together around a splint. The forefinger has no nail, but an exposed, bloody bed where one should be and was until recently. Poor hand. Poor, hurt, sad hand.

There's another much older voice but it's not in the room. It's not even in this year or this decade. I don't know it so well as the voice which is here, but I remember it better. An old woman in the park. I was trying to study leaf samples and a football had hit me in the head and oh, _God_, it hurt, but worse than that was the graze where I'd fallen on my elbow. And there was an old woman who chased away the boys with the football and said the strangest, most nonsensical thing I'd ever heard, 'Kiss it better', which is impossible even if you factor in the considerable healing properties of saliva, but she did, and it felt better. Psychosomatic, probably. I wonder if the hand knows enough about 'kiss it better' to get the best effect from a condition like that and decide to risk it, pressing the raw, shiny pink to my lips.

But the voice just winces, and the hand pulls away.

Hate. It always comes back to hate. You always mess it up and they always hate you. The world seeps in and I start to shiver, to shake, and I feel every muscle in my body seized, every bone vibrating and echoing.

But the hand goes back to stroking my hair for a second. Talk about your mixed messages.

There's an enormous heavy flutter like an embassy flag. Something thick and warm and familiar and smelling like me lands on top of me, covers the cold places, and the strange hands tuck it around me, tight, snug, like being held on to.

It's my coat. My coat has come back to me.

"Sleep, y'daft bastard," says the voice. Then says something else, something soft about time that I don't quite catch.

Then the bathroom door closes again.


	46. Sponge:Mirror

_Sherlock_

Music. There's music when I waken. Music and a smell that calls, lifts, drags me from the bath. At the door there's enough of me intact to know there's someone out there, that there shouldn't be, and to remember that I'm naked. I take a moment, fetching my coat from the bath. It came back to me. It was brought back. And there was someone there with a tortured hand and a soft voice, and beyond the door, down the hall, the soft voice is singing along with the music.

There's a version, an answer to these facts, that makes perfect sense, and yet I shake my head. No. She wouldn't. When she thought about it, when she knew what I'd done… there's no way.

But she was here, wasn't she? I was in between death and delirium and she was here talking to me.

I've got this terrible feeling I should be armed before I leave this room. There's nothing but the needle, so that's what I take. There's a decent shock factor to sticking a hypodermic in somebody's neck, especially a used one. Anyway, it's all I have. I just find it hard to believe she's come here with good intentions. Can't think what those good intentions might be, but there are plenty of bad ones, so this seems like the way to proceed.

Everything is fuggy, wavering. Still very much under the influence, I let myself out into the hall and I try to be quiet. The music will cover me, she's got it turned up. Singing along, _Unruly boys who will not grow up must be taken in hand_. I'm trying to place that smell, but it's too much, too good. I know it's food, but that's as far as I get. It's just ambrosial. Overload.

I stop, hidden around the corner from her. Get a quick look, a little reconnaissance. Singing along, _Unruly girls who will not settle down, they must be taken in hand_.

But Danielle Mies _looks_ settled down. Despite the obvious constriction to her movement from cuts and bruises, she's dancing, in a small, shuffling way, the way people only do when they think they're alone. And she's frying bacon and eggs. That's the smell. Things frying. Fat, grease. Toast. Coffee. There's a line of little white dumbbell stitches down her cheek and it doesn't look so bad this way. There's a dark tidemark at the edges of her face; she made an effort with her make-up to cover up the bruises, then gave up the ghost and washed it off. I saw her anyway, saw her at the worst. Why would she mask it?

I'm not so well hidden as I thought; she spins into the chorus and spots me. Stops dead. The smile is small and lazy, her head falling onto its side. "Hi."

"…Hello."

"You can come in, y'know. It's your place."

No. Maybe not just yet. Too many knives in there, too much simmering, spitting fat. Though I do want it. I want everything in those pans. Objectively I'm not even hungry and I want it. "…What are you doing?"

"I'm making… well, it's nearly midnight, so what is this?"

"…Supper."

"I'm making supper for you."

Could ask her why, could just skip to suspicion, should be checking for poisons, could be calling for help of _any_ kind, could do any number of things, could be higher than I am with some degree of safety, I feel… Too many variables. I'm going to get dressed.

Leave the lights off in the bedroom. It helps me think. If she had wished me any harm, surely she could have done it by now. She's not the type to poison. It's far, far too subtle for her. Anyway, she could have killed me while I was laid out in the bath. She's not the sporting type either, this I learned whilst being kicked, so it wouldn't have bothered her to work on an unconscious man. No, to all intents and purposes, it would seem that Mies is genuinely out there preparing food for me.

The only question is _why_, and it's a really important question. That's the question I started with and I still don't have an answer. I can't go out there without knowing what she _wants_, otherwise how can I be expected to deal with her?

Yesterday's black jeans, this morning's shirt, I dress quickly, but it leaves me no pocket for the needle. But there, still lying at the end of the bed, are the remains of the violin bow. I can carry this instead, carry it openly and do more damage if the need arises. Then, with the same caution as before, I return to her, just as she's plating up. And she's poured the coffee and left out cutlery and made herself a bacon sandwich on the side. That's alright, she can eat my bacon. But I make sure to sniff for any of the telltale poisons before I touch it, and I taste delicately before I start to wolf it down.

Somewhere in the midst of all this I manage to ask her what she's really doing here.

Mies shrugs. "I… I felt bad about yesterday. And then you saved my arse this morning and you didn't have to so… It's a double guilt, really."

"Guilt? You?"

She mock-laughs, "Hadn't considered that one?" But under my gaze, which wobbles a bit, but I _mean_ it, which is half the battle, she folds. "Okay. So I need somewhere to hide tonight until my passport comes through. But I thought I'd come back and take care of you, meantime…" Saying this, she's abashed, even sheepish. I can't think of a reply. She mistakes my silence for anger. Nods to herself. Pushes off the counter and wheels towards the door, and I almost, _almost_ let her go.

"Danielle, wait."

"Hm?"

Look at her. She tries to turn back to me and has to pivot from the feet. I could have held my own broken rib against her until I knew she had one of her own. "You know I know… _people_. I can't guarantee you're still safe here."

"But… But you're not throwing me out, though?"

_Look _at her. She's defenceless. And so am I, but the two of us are better off together than both alone, aren't we? Isn't that safer?

"No."

She comes back. Suddenly remembers something and shuffles her hand into her pocket. Comes out with the two little baggies I was missing before. For a terrible second I could kill her, and she sees it, starts very quickly, "I fucking _had_ to, you mentalist! You were going to… do yourself a mischief."

Overdose, she means. Funny how comfortable she is with the language of addiction and of crime and sex and all the other things people don't like talking about, but that one eludes her. And yes, maybe I was, but that was my decision and not hers to make. She sees the way I look at the two little packets and actually reaches out and _takes one back_.

"…I beg your pardon, Danielle?"

"Sorry, Sherlock, I don't trust you." That. _That_ gets through the fug. That's what means she's here with her own motives. That's my proper name and she should still be calling me Jeremy. "I heard when you were outside the taxi? Don't worry. If I had anything like that, I'd lie too. But it suits you better than Jeremy did. Sexier like that, and no unfortunate Clarkson associations…"

The strangest part of the whole thing is there's a compliment in there…

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

And me? What am I doing? Where do I fit into the grand scheme of things now? Well I'm the new Hugo, you see. It's my turn to sort out passports and arrange safe passage and basically do the fucking grunt work. Oh, not to mention, Darcy and the pictures are here, so I'm still public-enemy-number-one-by-proxy and in grave danger through no real fault of my own. And _why_ am I doing all this? Because 'I was bored' isn't really an excuse anymore, is it? I've had more than a few opportunities to back out by now. And I can't honestly tell you I'm still having any kind of _fun_, now, can I? Not with this sort of pointless, everyday activity laid upon my shoulders. Not when I nearly got shot this morning. Not with Darcy looking daggers at me ever since I 'switched sides' (like him and me ever had a _side_) and told Danielle she could fuck off and get into whatever insane plan she had. I just want them gone now. It all changed when she started talking about me, and if that's how she thinks of me then that's her bloody fault. This is over now.

In fact, that's it, there's your answer – because it's over, so that it can be _over_, that's why I'm doing this. Get rid of her, get gone. Talk about _saving_ me? _Me_? Who the fuck does she think she is? Talking like she knows any goddamn fucking thing about me.

I put the name Gertrude Kuntz on her passport. It was the single most horrible name I could think of. Petty? You can bet your fucking arse, it's petty, and you can bet it'll annoy her too.

She didn't get it, y'know. Why I changed my mind about letting her go. Well, she had no way of knowing I heard her, did she? She would get it if she knew that. As it was she looked at me, all proud and thinking she'd won, and saw the look on my face and started acting all offended. Not that that stopped her going. Not that I, apparently, get a fucking say in anything.

Me, me that still has nerves to work on (remember that?), she's working the last bloody one with this ridiculous bloody plan. But fine, let her off and get herself captured or killed.

A car went after her. Like I was going to bother following her. A car went after her and it's waiting in case there's a body to move. She's still got her phone on her and I don't want them using it to find Darcy. He'll get over it, eventually, and then he'll be useful to me again. Darcy I can deal with. Her, if the guy in the front of that car is keeping a close eye on the building she went into, it's not because I told him to. Or it's because I told him to be the first one the scene if she gets herself shot. That's all it fecking is.

Somewhere in the depths of the night, when it's supposed to be his turn to sleep, all of a sudden Darcy's there. I don't hear him coming, and he stands out of the light, a shadow on the shadow. I can't see the gun, but that doesn't mean it's not there.

"…Can I help you?"

"What happened?"

"Oh. Passports'll be here tomorrow and as soon as the kamikaze's thrown her little fit, you'll be –"

"Yeah, see, that's what I was talking about. That part there. You and Danielle. Something changed up those stairs when Ruby was here-"

"Don't know what you're-"

"And I _trusted_ you," he says, and I wish he wouldn't. I wish to God he wouldn't fucking say that, and wouldn't stab that finger at me when he says it. It makes me feel like I've done something. Only priests and teachers get to make me feel that, and even that stopped a long time ago. That doesn't happen anymore, alright, Jon? "I trusted you and I let her go, but that was a bloody stupid thing to do, wasn't it?"

"What are you _talking_ about, Darcy?"

"Something happened and you stopped giving a shit what happened. That's all it was. I thought she said something and you knew she'd be safe, but the more I think about it, that doesn't make sense."

"It's late. You've every reason to be paranoid. Go and rest and stop taking it out on me."

"See, you're lying to me. And I don't like that, because it reminds me that I don't actually know you all that well. Danielle said you were alright, but then again Danielle's not here. And her track record with blokes gives me a bit of wiggle room on that, wouldn't you say?"

"Danielle and me never- D'you know what? Why am I explaining this to you? I've done nothing but help you out from the beginning of this and this is where we end up?"

"Oh, no, don't think for a second this is me being ungrateful, mate." He raises both his hands, but I don't actually feel like he's surrendering or showing he's harmless. "Just know that girl's my best mate, and under the current circumstances, given the few scant facts that I have, should anything happen to her I'll be forced to hold you solely responsible."

Oh. His hands are up there to get better aim at my neck. Right. Best not say the wrong thing. Don't tell him she's fine because he'll tell me I've no way of knowing, don't accuse him of anything because he'll get offended, don't tell him to calm down because he'll fucking kill me with his big hands and they are, allow me to assure you, quite large.

"Do you think I'm thick? Do you think I don't fecking know that? It's not _me_ you don't trust, it's _her_."

That shocks him. Just enough. Gives me just enough time to pick up the laptop and leave the room, like I'm storming out on him. There's nowhere really to go, but I sit at the dining room table and I stay quiet and I leave the light off. Eventually, Darcy stops doing his statue bit and skulks out past me without another word. That what you get for trying to make _me_ feel guilty. Me? I've still got feelings to hurt? No thanks, angel. You're mistaken there. Me, I'm a mirror. People can do whatever they want to me, but I'm never the one who gets hurt, no, not me. That's what a mirror does; it lets you see yourself and it doesn't lie to you about what you look like. And anything you bounce off a mirror comes right back at you. Darcy knows that. Danielle'll know it too, when she stops to think.

Save me? How fucking dare she talk like she knows a fucking thing…


	47. Fee:Free

_Jim_

Darcy sleeps well past his appointed time. I understand he's had a long and stressful one, but he's not alone. I'm knackered too. You don't expect it of a soldier. Honestly, it's the first time since we've met I think he's properly disappointed me. Any other night, I'd rouse him rolling him off the side of the bed and I'd be asleep before he could complain about it. But considering our earlier conversation maybe I'll just let him lie.

Fuck off, it's not guilt. I thought it was for a while, but really that doesn't make any sense. For it to be guilt I'd have to have already felt bad for letting his nympho mate have her way, and I didn't. I don't. Never once did. But I tell you what, when she gets old and horrible, or if that hole on her face scars and nobody wants her, I'm going to be there. With popcorn. Pointing and laughing when everything she knows and her answer to fucking everything is taken from her.

Did you know I'd used her before, by the way? Because I didn't. But it turns out, when you do a bit of research and your guy at Interpol _finally_ gets back to you, she's the only suspect in a jewel heist two years ago in Marrakech. Which I set up, but I never had words directly with the thief. I must say, she puts on a much more professional air online. It's only when she's there in front of you that her desire to damage and destroy gets the better of her. I didn't even know she was a woman before. I was just testing the water with Hugo Tudor and the kind of people he could recommend. Take his thief, send him out of his country and his comfort zone, see what came back. The whole fucking treasure chest came back and never a murmur from him. I hadn't had cause to pick him up again, but I certainly would have.

And for fuck's sake, 'he' appears and tries to pick _me_ up.

Of course, I'm taking all of this far too seriously. Darcy's as good as told me I was never really important. They just thought somebody might have been watching me. So my involvement was, from the word go, nothing more than a happy accident for them.

I'm not ashamed to tell you I don't understand any of this. For instance, I don't want Mies here, don't want her round me or _near_, Christ no. But I don't want her out there, wherever she is, with that other fella. He cut her up. He's clearly a dangerous psychopath. I mean, yes, I did a bit of damage myself, but I was tied up. I was backed into a corner.

She's not just an art thief, y'know. She'll be known for that because it was the National that made her public knowledge. She's done a lot of museum jobs. Artefacts seem to the specialty. I hear there's a decent traffic in those. At least now I know not to get into that. Likely we'd bump into each other if we were both moving in that circle.

By the way, I'm not reading all this Interpol stuff because I care or anything. It's just to keep me awake. I'm actually not going to be bothered anymore, I'm going to look up Darcy instead. That'll be interesting _and_ useful to me, if he's hanging about.

Nobody's gotten back to me about Darcy. Until this last most secret blow-up, he's been a perfect citizen, so there's nothing to find. But I do end up drifting back to that murdered mother of his. Probably shouldn't have been such a prick about that before. Then again, I didn't know him before. Can't feel bad when you didn't have all the fact.

I need to stop talking about guilt, don't I? You'd think I was actually _feeling_ it the way I get on.

The thing about Liz Moran, and, _yes_, Arthur Mies, is that Darcy seems pretty sure it was England herself that done for them. But Danielle wasn't so sure. She still thinks Goganye, Nkwambe King, is a possibility. And I just hate the idea of Darcy losing everything he loved and festering under a false assumption. Obviously, by all means, I prefer him now he's not a loyal soldier. But if he doesn't need to blame them for the loss of mother-dear, then I'd rather he didn't have to.

And that's the other thing, all this 'them' and 'country', all these big intangible things. Somewhere there's a name. Somewhere somebody signed off on the order.

I might not owe them anything, but _somebody_ does.

No harm in sending out a few feelers, few choice words in the right ears. Not while I'm sitting here and the notion's upon me.

So I start about it, and there's one more thing I should probably get done before Darcy gets up. I do it with the phone held against my shoulder, casual as I possibly can. I don't _feel_ it, so there's no point getting into the whole drama of the thing. Just hope I don't wake her.

I don't. Danielle picks up on the second ring. Sounding tired and relaxed and languid. Sounding safe, which is something I can pass on to Darcy. I'll probably tell him she called me. At first she's all business, sharp with me, "Passports alright?"

"On their way, best in the business."

"Yeah, well, let me know." Even then, her voice is disappearing, taking the phone away, fading-

"Danielle, wait."

"…Yeah?"

"Look, have I offended you or something? Darcy said you were pissed off."

"Not at all. You've done a lot for us. Don't doubt that we're grateful." Yeah, but not the undying gratitude from before. That was scary, but this is even _worse_. This is _business_ gratitude. This is 'I know I owe you a favour' gratitude. "By the way," she adds, "You have to let me know what the dry-cleaning comes to, from when I went over your wardrobe."

_That's_ just a fecking insult.

This is not how I saw this conversation going.

"How's your interesting person, Danielle?"

"What do you usually charge for your services, Jim?" I hang up, to deny her the pleasure of doing it first.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

She comes back from the hallway and tosses her phone into the armchair, then sits back down where she was before. On the couch, next to me. Far from the phone and still glancing over at it.

"Is everything alright?"

The question brings Mies back into the room, brings back her easy smile.

"It's all exactly how I expected." She leans over, nudges my arm, "What about you, how're you feeling?"

Alright, actually. Been a while since I had such a slow, easy come down. Something to do with the double dose, maybe, maybe something to do with being well fed and having had a drink or two (to be sociable). That's the second time she's asked, as well. Like she's really concerned. Which she probably isn't, but she does such a good job of pretending, what's the harm in pretending to believe? Pretend for a bit we never nearly bloody killed each other. Be friends.

As friends, we're sitting in relative quiet, with the music turned low. Everything's backward; the fry-up felt like breakfast but it's dark outside and all the neighbours are sleeping. For a while at the start we apologized at each other about yesterday, but that's over now, I think. Neither of us has said anything for a while now.

But since she sat back down she hasn't been comfortable. She shifts now, rolling sideways off her damaged rib. For a second it turns her in against me, head on my shoulder. She mutters 'sorry', in a strange, perfunctory way. Almost as though I've told her not to lean on me before now, or like I'm someone else entirely. Before I can tell it not to my arm hooks up and holds her there, and I tell her to stay. Another wriggle and the weight of her sinks into the curve of me. Our good, not-painful sides resting together.

"I must say, you take being tortured very much in your stride."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Not really."

"It could be no worse than withdrawal. Don't they say that's like getting a decent kicking?" "Nobody pulls out your fingernails when you're in withdrawal." I pick up her hand. She's bandaged it since before, but even the sticking plaster looks uncomfortable. "I remember this, you know. Now, given your profession, I won't do you the dishonour of asking how you got in, but why bother with all that over the bath?" And she can say all she said before, about how she needs me alive so she can stay here, how she felt guilty after yesterday, can repeat all that, but it's not the truth and I know that.

She takes her hand back from mine and sighs, "You were muttering. And I couldn't make a scrap of sense out of any of it, but you _sounded_… like, _sad_. And scared. And it was horrible, because I've been scared and I… I just felt like I should do something." Her hand, when it retracted, had fallen to rest on my knee. It did that before and she took it away. I think she must remember that too; she takes it away again. This time I don't just wait for it to return. I reach down and hold it there.

"So now that you've got your pictures back-"

"Yes, I'm the princess. Yes, you were right about everything. And I still wish you didn't know any of it. Doesn't do anybody any good."

"Funny, I'd _noticed_ that. So now what? You're just going to run with your leverage this time?" The question is wrong, too direct. It makes her cagey, as if I'm wheedling the information from her. She's thinking now about who I know, that I might still be holding a grudge. And somehow I hate that. She doesn't want to tell me what the plan is and that's alright. I tell her so. Quickly, gratefully, she turns her face up, kissing the edge of my jaw. I'm not sure quite what my reaction says, but she dips her head away. Shifts again and takes all her strange weight and warmth away from me. "Don't. What's that for?"

"Nothing. It's alright." She tries taking her hand away and I change my grip to keep it in mine, holding it around the palm to avoid the damaged fingers. "Look, this was a bad idea, me coming back here. I'll just find my shoes and I'll – you should really let me go."

"That would be very irresponsible of me. You wouldn't be here in the first place if you had anywhere else to go, and you're far too recognizable in your current state. To let you go would basically be to deliver you into the hands of people who only want to do further harm. That would not be chivalrous."

"It's better for you if I go."

It's really not. While we've been sitting here I've been caught no less than four times trying to pick that elusive last dose from her pocket. She keeps putting me back. Apparently I still need her intervention. Very hard to tell her that, though. Don't really have words for that. I just need her to stay. But I don't really know how to say that either.

Everything about her tells what she really wants. The slightest hint of a blush, high on her cheeks, wide-eyed, shoulders square to me. I tighten my grip and pull her back in against me. Mies doesn't want to stay, she wants to be kept.

She tries again to kiss me, nothing quite so delicate now. More like when she bit me. It's not what I wanted but it's what it takes to change her mind. Then her other hand, the good hand, starts working its way down over my shoulder, under my t-shirt, and she's trying to get mine to do the same. It's really the last thing I wanted, but I let it go on. I pull her hair out her face when she lowers her lips to my shoulder. That's as much help as I give her. And I concede when she places my hand to the unbruised indent of her waist, where the skin is smooth and cool and the sensation is new and not unpleasant, but that's it.

That's it because it doesn't go any further. The fingertips of her good hand slip behind me and start to slide beneath the waistband of my jeans. In a millisecond my mouth goes dry, she's too close and exploring the new mystery of her skin isn't important anymore. "No," comes out quicker, sharper, than I would have hoped. She lifts her head. Her expression is strange. Not offended, not disappointed. I don't know what it is. "Sorry, not now. Too sore. And you're hardly-"

"-An oil painting," she cuts in. Perfectly matter of fact, nodding, sitting back from me. "I get it."

"That's not what I was going to say. You're just… _vulnerable_. I wouldn't feel-"

"It's alright, I get it." She doesn't, though. So I start to help her up, and she ends up helping me. I get her good hand, this time, the dangerous one, and pull her with me. "Where are we going?"

"Bed." Before she can get too confused, "Too long a day, Danielle, don't you agree?" She does. As soon as she stops to think about she knows exactly what I mean. Nothing else that could possibly happen makes as much sense as this, and nothing else could be considered viable under the circumstances. The only logical way to proceed is to lead her into the bedroom, undress in the dark and slide beneath the sheets with her. Both of us turned off our fractures. Face to face. She holds the pillow tight beneath her head, and very quickly she's gone. I join her soon after with my hand in that same strange place along her side.


	48. Expectations:Assumptions

_Sherlock_

I almost don't want her to wake up.

God knows what time it is, but the sun is high outside and I'd say we both deserved the long morning. Somewhere in the night, Danielle sank along the pillow. Her forehead rests against my collarbone. One arm under her head, the other along my chest. While she's asleep and oblivious it's alright. Unconscious, she's just another experiment, objective, with no expectations. But sooner rather than later she's going to be awake again. The first thing she sees is going to be me, sweating, tensed up to kill the shaking. Looking across the room for her cast-off jeans, like they're going to have gone anywhere, and what's in the pocket, and making sure I can still see where I had to leave the needle. 'Once upon a time', remember? I remember. Word for word, I remember.

_Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a handsome, multi-skilled, duplicitous fucking junkie-_

I know her hands were tied at the time. I know she had her back to the wall. But those were words that came easily to her. Those are the expectations and last night, maybe, just for a second, those weren't the expectations anymore. I was something else. I don't know quite what it was, but it wasn't junkie scum, and it was nice.

But that's certainly what I am this morning. No denying that now.

I woke because she has messages. Her phone keeps buzzing against the bedside. I'm not a heavy sleeper and I wasn't half as exhausted as she was. There was one on its own very early this morning, but I rolled over. Then there were two about ten minutes apart and four or five in quick succession since. Could be important. Could be her passport. Could be Darcy checking I haven't killed her. In the last case, her not-answering is more of a danger to me than anybody else. But I don't want to wake her up.

When she slid close, my arm slid behind her. She's warm and her tattoo is raised from her skin, the dark, intentional scar. I let the tip of my finger trail down first one, then the other line of Chinese. She shudders as though tickled. Rolls her shoulder, trapping a bruise and hisses.

The arm that had just been lying along the line of me wraps under my arm and pulls her even closer. Not my intention. The last thing I want, really. But she needs this and I'm tempted one more time just to leave her there. Physical proximity clearly provides some comfort to her. I'm not a cruel person. Sometimes, yes, there's an incident, a bad day, I _can_ be cruel. But not at heart. For a second last night I felt better and for a second now I can give her the same.

But beyond her, glowing in the dim from the blinds, her phone goes off again. I place one hand in the small of her back, more firmly this time, tip up her chin with the other.

Danielle doesn't immediately recognize me. Her eyes go wide and threatened. Then they soften and she actually smiles. She can't be so bleary she's missed all the signs. The expectations are still there. She's just a wonderful actress. That's all.

"Morning." I hear it less than I feel her exhale.

"I think probably afternoon."

"…Well, we were late starting." As I start to pull my arm back, my hand slips over that same place as before, where her body bends neatly in the middle. It triggers the details of last night and she draws back and away from me. Her voice strengthens, shaking off sleep, regaining herself, "I'm sorry, I've gotten awfully familiar overnight."

It's the light. The half-light must be hiding the state of me. Otherwise she'd be out of this bed by now. She'd be gone and not lingering, not still looking at me. I have to do something before she starts to look more closely. "Don't apologize. You've… you've got messages."

Terribly inconvenient messages, from the sound of her sighing, the bored, annoyed way she rolls over to grab the phone. And offensive messages, from the way she reacts to them. While she's distracted, I get up, retrieve the needle from the chest of drawers. I've still got the second dose, don't need the one she's holding hostage just yet. Just the one. It's alright, it'll do.

This is better. This gives us both time to normalize. I cook the dose while I'm waiting for the shower to heat up. Danielle's on the phone in the next room. Can't make out much. This is one of those times eavesdropping would probably be a good idea, for my own safety as much as anything else, but there are more important things. Hot water and pressure brings the vein up easily. Inside thigh; less noticeable to the house guest. Hopefully, anyway…

With my head against the wall, echoing through the tiles, there's one little thing I do catch. She raises her voice, involuntarily, 'I'm working on it'. Realizes she was too loud and the rest disappears back down into the murmur.

What's Danielle working on? Danielle's just hiding here until she can run. But then again, she never confirmed that. I never managed to get the plan out of her.

Then the best of the hit hits and the idea fades out.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Me? Je ne regrette rein, alright? All this 'drunken texts you don't really mean', that's for people who can't hold their drink. My ancestors would haunt me into my own grave if that were ever to happen. I meant every fucking word.

The only reason I delete from the Sent Messages what I sent Klepto-Nympho last night is because Darcy wouldn't understand. He might overreact. I mean, all it said was 'You couldn't afford me'. I have a feeling he might read that the wrong way, seeing he wasn't privy to our conversation last night. And the other messages, I don't regret at all and have no reason to. I sent one asking if she and Person Of Interest had had a nice night and one telling her off for not replying to Darcy. It's alright for her, she doesn't have to live with him. He's pacing a trench in the floor between the sink and the fridge. I knew this would happen. I could have told them this would happen. She's going to get herself killed by the kind of perv who picks up shoeless women and he's going to worry himself to death before her heart's quite stopped.

And where does that leave me? No future assassin and mate, no thief to claim back the costs from. Apparently that's all we are to each other, anyway.

I'm not standing for this. If the clock strikes one, I don't care how precarious it might be, I'm calling again. Actually, no, not even. I'll get Darcy to do it, because frankly, I could do without the aggro, and the false, chameleon voice and all the little tricks.

She's probably been kicked out. Person Of Interest probably couldn't hack her.

The clock doesn't get to strike one. Quarter-to, Darcy's phone rings. And he thanks God and Jesus and saint upon saint, so I'm presuming it's the right name that's flashed up on screen. "I never knew you were Catholic and all-"

"Long time ago, it's a leftover." Answering, "Dani?" And then he sighs. Read: relieved. Read: alive and well.

All I needed to know.

I leave him to it, carry the laptop out of the room. Believe it or not, I've still got a life of my own; I've still got work to do. Nothing massive, just tying off a few ends on a few other jobs, responding to a few queries, putting the right people in touch. Won't take more than a couple of hours, and we've got that. If Mata Hari's found time to call, she probably hasn't been hauled up for negotiations yet. That'll be a different kind of conversation altogether, I'll be there for that. But for now, finally, thank God, I can get back to doing what it is I actually _do_.

It's not easy, y'know. It's all about brokering relationships between people in illicit businesses, about moving things that people don't want to see moved, oh, and I have to remember to trigger the payment for the fella that nicked the Caravaggio for me. _There's _a waste of money anyway. Buy an instrument of torture and use it, what, twice? And it's not like I can even use it on anybody else. Maybe I'll hang it over the bed. Short of having her skull stuffed and mounted, it's probably my best shot at a trophy.

But yeah, that was my point – what I do is important and not easy. Somebody has to carve out the world as you know it. Christ knows you don't. Somebody has to take it upon themselves to pull the strings.

But twenty minutes in, I find myself stuck. Staring into dead space just above the screen. Hands frozen over the keyboard. Wrists starting to hurt. Been here before. Bored. He's got the whole world in his hands. Well, yeah, but there's only so long you can play with one toy. This is how all this started. This is what I'm going back to. This is what my life was before this week and what it will be again.

But at least it'll be _my own_ again. I'll be back at home and all my belongings will have stopped reeking of perfume, and if they haven't I'll send them to be burned and just redecorate, and everything will be mine again and there will be nobody else deciding what has to happen, and there'll be no fighting and struggling and thinking too hard too quickly. No more Michael Steeles or Molly Hoopers. No more Mies. I'm keeping Darcy, but that's a business thing. That's just the prize for suffering this time in such good humour as I have.

Fuck it. It's been a holiday. But I'm going home somewhere in the next couple of days.

Need to get back to work, make sure everything's still running nice and smoothly.

So bloody hard to make my fingers move on the keys again, though. But once I get going, I'll be fine. I'll be fine.

Darcy comes through from the kitchen, holding out the phone. Should probably ignore it, probably tell him she should call back when there's actually business to discuss. Probably just keep working away here, doing my thing, what I'm good at, pulling strings, carving, so on, so forth, you know, I grab the phone from him.

Guessing at her, "You've changed your mind, you're not suicidal anymore, when can we come and pick you up."

"No, I'm having a whale of a time."

"Is that all you called to say, angel?"

"What did I do? Why do you hate me all of a sudden?"

"Where would you like me to start?"

"…Fine."

"You finished with me days ago. Why didn't you just leave me out after that?"

"_I'm working on it_!"

"_Temper_, tiger. Give a bell come negotiation-time, would you? I know you too well; you'll use the term 'come to an arrangement' and get yourself all excited."

This time I let her have the petty little pleasure of hanging up. She doesn't have much else in this life but small pleasures. I'm not a cruel person, remember? Not yet, anyway.


	49. Incorruptible:Incorrigible

_Jim_

Not long after that phone call, a terrible, dark feeling knots up in my chest. Nothing to do with her, then, or even with Darcy's reaction. He's taken himself off upstairs to endure all this waiting away from me, and I've sort of half-forgotten him.

The waiting might be all it is. There comes a point in any job where there's nothing to do but see how it comes off. There will always be a point where the control goes away from me and onto the shoulders of an actor out there in the real world. I don't _like_ letting the control go away, but that's the nature of the business. The feeling is the fear, almost the _knowledge_, that the worst is on its way. Best approach to take; anything less than the worst is a relief. Still, it's not been this bad in a long time. This is that odd tugging sensation that makes you keep checking your phone, like someone might have switched the ringer off without telling you, even though, short of the intervention of pixies, there's really no way that could have happened. It makes your thoughts swing wildly from point to barely related point and you can't stay still, not for a second, not long enough to make tea, fuck's sake, to do _nothing_.

Do you know this feeling? Does this happen to normal people? I feel like it does. It hasn't been this bad in me in a long time. I was probably a lot closer to normal back then. Not _close_, exactly, never that, but closer than now. Like the first real, big job, in Dublin, trying to be known, trying to make a name.

There's this church, there, a saint's church. Okay, so there are several dozen saint's churches in that God-bothering hole, but there's this one in particular which shall remain nameless to protect the guilty.

Carve yourself out an evil spot in Dublin? A ruthless, merciless one, untempered by the usual trappings of the Irish? A place you can really be proud of, pure and clean and unmitigated? Do a church. That much was just _logic_.

So like I say, there's this one church in particular with a saint's name over the door and a saint's heart in the crypt. A relic. This heart that's seized up dry and hard over time but never ever rotted. Incorruptible, they call it. And I liked that, 'incorruptible'. That had the sound of a challenge, don't you think?

I sent gents to take it away. They were a bit more forceful than the like of Miss Mies, but I didn't have the people at the time to make something vanish into thin air. If I had it to do over, that's what I'd do.

Then I sent them back the next night to return it to its pretty wrought reliquary. Well, _a_ heart, anyway. What did they want an old shrivelled thing for when they could have a sticky, shiny new one? Christ's sake, there was a pack of nuns calling it a miracle before it started to smell.

Nah, I gave the withered old version to the Liffey.

And I think, I _think_, that was the last time the knotty, iron feeling was this bad.

The worst was coming. I'd been seen or given up or something had happened and the cops were going to be at the door any second. We were past the point now where all they'd do would be drag me home to Ma and this, like I say, was an attack on a Catholic church in the middle of Dublin. I was fucked. I'd be torn to shreds. I'd be a charming shade of purple before I ever saw the inside of a cell, and the wood-panelled warmth of a courtroom was a dream for foolish men. Oh, the worst was in the post, first class, and it wouldn't be long arriving.

And do you know what, the worst never came.

I dropped an ancient, sacred heart, stone-hard and the colour of well-hung meat, off the Ha'penny Bridge on a Friday night and nobody so much as caught the tang of iron, heard the water take it.

I learned two things from the experience. One, that guilty sort of fear is bloody exhausting, and really far too much trouble. I was going to have to pack that in if I ever wanted to get anywhere. It was unbecoming to a young man of swiftly-growing standing. And two, it wasn't going to be hard to pack it in. Because you don't even need to be careful, if I'm honest with you. Provided you don't take the piss? The worst isn't coming. The worst has never come to me, and I've reached a stage now where the air is pure and clear around me. I'm out of reach. So perfectly detached that even the abstracts, the fear and retribution and justice and all those big pretty words, they can't get me anymore, not if I don't want them to. They belong to the world and me, I'm stratospheric. They are human things and I am a force of nature.

That's what makes the feeling so strange, so terrible. I'm twenty again and still scared of the wrath of a God I've given up on, and of coppers and jail and death and the tyranny of mothers and bad reputation. It's a terrible place to be, and when I figure out what's brought me here I'm going to kill it a few different kinds of dead, just so it'll know it can't get away with this. Just so it'll know that I can _do_ that and it can't have me.

Ugly fucking feeling.

To fight it, I force myself through the stupid acts of making tea. I place the phone screen up right next to the laptop, and the tea on the other side. No more fidgeting, no more wandering about, until I'm at least halfway down the to-do list. All the tie up and clean up and the analysis and waiting for any replies to the queries Re: Dead 70s MI6 Agents. Tap 'enter' to wake the screen up. That's all I tap. The second it appears the knot seizes like a fist trying to wrench my insides out by the lungs.

There's a rap at the door and though there shouldn't be, I couldn't be more grateful for the interruption. It's all I can do not to run to it.

As I get there, Darcy's halfway down the stairs, gun ready. We're not expecting anybody this time. He nods to me and I open the door.

What do you know, I was right. The worst was coming.

Hugo fucking Tudor.

"Alright, art-lovers?" is how he opens this. Grinning his rotten brown teeth at us, clapping his bony, stinking hands together. "How goes the Great Escape?"

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

When I'm feeling a little more normal, when she's done with her phone calls and whatever she's working on, when we're both dressed and sitting over coffee, Danielle tells how Delibes nearly got her killed, how she's never going back to Paris, how she once attempted to murder Jeff Buckley after a show in the southern states of America. He never reported her. Intrigued, apparently, by the romance of the whole thing.

"I don't believe you."

"You can ask him, if you want; we're still in touch."

"No, that one I believe but- wait, really?"

"Go on?"

"The Flower Duet. Far too popular. Everywhere. You expect me to believe you end up fully incapacitated anytime a British Airways ad comes on."

"One of the reasons I prefer box sets to live TV."

"Come on."

"I'm serious. I go into a trance. _Why_ they always have to put these things in the first act, I'll never know."

"They do tend to bracket. Something beautiful at the beginning, something beautiful at the end."

"I wouldn't know. I've never made it the whole way through any ope-_Stop laughing at me_!" I don't want to stop. Now that I've started I realize I haven't done it in quite some time, or not genuinely anyway. It feels strange. Not unpleasant. And she's smiling, so I know I haven't properly offended her. She says it's not funny, but she grins as she says it. It's alright. "Oh, I tell a lie – Got through _The Magic Flute _in one piece."

"Do you think Mozart would be offended if he knew?"

She creases giggling, has to literally hold a pain in her side. Grins again, "You're not even funny. Oh, but that reminds me; what do I owe you for killing your violin?"

"The violin had it coming."

"Really, I feel awful."

"I don't use it now. I only took it out because you were… _here_."

She stops smiling. Looking sad, almost _offended_, "You _should_. I liked your _Lark_."

"You said I was butchering it." I don't mean to whine, but it comes across that way.

"I was under duress. But you should play." I shake my head. Across the breakfast bar she grabs my hand, "Please. This is as close as I can get to being a patron of the arts."

If she wasn't a thief with a condition, what would she be? Elegant and artistic, probably musical herself. And hard-working too. The proper combination. Maybe not a virtuoso. Sometimes I find it hard to believe in innate genius. But talented. A first or second chair in an orchestra, perhaps. Or an actress. Stage, not screen. I want to say she'd be classic and demure, but let's not romanticize; I know her to be animal and atavistic. She'd get herself all over the tabloids, but never with any malice. The theatre is where all the great tragic love stories are, onstage and off it. She would, at any rate, be the strange, elevated thing that she is whatever circle she moved in. And we would never have met, or if we did she'd be dead or she'd spit on me.

I catch myself thinking all of this, not knowing where it's come from. I need her to let go of my hand so I tell her I'll consider it. I won't, though. There was a reason I put the bloody thing down in the first place. And yes, it got me out of a spot, but that's all there is to it. It's wood and hair and silver and bone and nickel. I owe it nothing.

Her head tilts. Danielle is about to ask and _how_? How could she possibly have that question? The woman has the strangest intuition I've ever come across, "What's the matter? You keep it but you don't play. What'd it ever do to you?"

Nothing. I just stopped lying to myself. I stopped telling myself it protected me, distracted me. I gave up all the old excuses and the violin was the worst of them. Matter of fact, before the junk, it was the only distraction I ever felt any affection for, _liked_ even. There was a lie in the way it made me feel and I hate lies. I hate cover-ups and false pretences and… and her fingers drum once on the back of my hand before she lets it go. She asks, polite and perfunctory, if she can use the shower and doesn't need me to tell her yes.

While she's in the bathroom I start, finally, to clean up the mess of her searching. Feels like a long time ago, now. Starting with the sheet music that had looked like such a saviour. It's all over the place, all out of order. I couldn't tell you why I stop to organize it. God knows, short of violent kidnap by any other Stendhal sufferer, I'll never have need of it again. But for the sake of effective cataloguing of the bookshelves, it might as well be right.

I'm filling the shelves again, taking the opportunity to arrange the contents as I and not Mycroft would have them, when there's a knock at the door. I'm not expecting anybody, though that's nothing new. I stand very still and try to wait it out. With the shower running, I've got a chance of ignoring them. The fugitive in the bathroom is one reason. Mostly, though, I just don't want to. I want this strange lazy day to go on as it's begun. It's a holiday. It's a well-deserved rest after yesterday's fearful excesses. This is mine and if I just stand very still, maybe nobody will take that away from me.

Then comes the voice through the door.

"I know you're there, Sherlock, and I know you can hear me."

Bored. Stentorian. Mycroft.

For another, terrible second, I stick to that initial staying-still plan. But it's not going to work. He's not going anywhere. There's nothing false about the rage I bring to the door. I open it only enough to look at him.

"What do you want?"

"After yesterday morning? Don't say you weren't expecting me." Well, brother dear, I would have been, and indeed I did for a bit. Then I was high, then I was contemplating being dead, then Mies arrived to fry eggs, and I'm afraid to say I'd rather forgotten. Forgive me for not having the kettle on…

"Come back later."

"I don't think so, somehow." He puts his shoulder to the door and, without the slightest exertion, without a twitch from his everyday marble-calm, he glides past me. Stops, surveying the ragged piles I've gotten the books into, listening closely to the sound of the water running. "Company, Sherlock?" He actually lifts his voice. Like he wants her to hear. Must be some polite way of announcing himself, in case she walks out in a towel or something. Heavens forfend.

The water cuts out. With the worst _possible_ timing, bloody woman, the water stops. "Yes, so it would really be much better for all involved if you came back later."

"Surely not the same young lady who answered the phone before?"

"Indeed. And a bit of a nobody, really, nothing you'd ever want to take from me, nothing like that at all, so-" In all of this, I'm trying to put myself between him and the bathroom door, raising my voice to match his so she'll know, so she'll take the hint, the warning, so she'll go out the window or _something_, but not walk right into him.

"Nonsense. There must be _something_ to it, if she's back again." He's teasing. He's got that smug _bloody_ smile on his face, the one I can do nothing about, and he's _teasing_. "You're my little brother, Sherlock. Of course I should meet her."

Behind me the door opens.

"It's alright," she sighs. "He knows who I am and he knows why I'm here." She steps out between us. Her head tips towards me, but her eyes stay on Mycroft. "'Little brother'," she sighs. Or maybe it's a desperate laugh. "'Little brother', my Christ… Holmes. Your proper surname is Holmes…"

Something's happened. I've done something. She's hardened and all but wants me dead. But there's no time for it, and the dead, steely heat from her fades. She stands straight and royal before Mycroft and asks if he won't give her ten minutes to make herself presentable. And he, being a gentleman, not so much as mentioning the unlocked window, concedes.

Danielle retreats to the bathroom and shuts the door. In new silence Mycroft looks at me with something that might almost be sympathy. It's sickening. He tries to put a hand on my shoulder. I duck it and weave away from him.

"I tried to tell you, Sherlock. You never knew what you were into."

He's too far away to hear me, so I mutter for him to die screaming.


	50. The Queen's Gambit:The Pawn's Promotion

_Sherlock_

It's all very simple. This was the plan. This is why she wouldn't _explain_ the plan. Mies didn't come here to hide, she came because she knew she _couldn't_. They can't run without coming to some sort of arrangement with their captors. She came here to meet Mycroft in relative isolation and safety. It's all very simple, you know, very basic, very much a caged-animal sort of thing to do. Very _her_.

I want to speak to her before they begin their negotiations, but she's beyond that door and he's between us and I can't get to her. It's probably for the best. I don't know what I was going to say.

I watch Mycroft instead. And I must say, it's nice to see him nervous. Not that you'd think it from first glance, but he's in fear of his life. Keeps glancing towards the window. Bet he's got somebody on the next roof across, in case she makes any move they don't like. Bet they've got a signal worked out between them. And I'll bet it's his own fault he's afraid. He's got that slightly sheepish look about him; cleaning up his own mess. But he's going about it all wrong, like using a mop on a spill; all he's done is spread it about. There was panic and no precision, no strategy.

Mies knew his name. The second she saw him. His voice had maybe been familiar before that, but it's amazing what you can forget when you don't want to believe. Looked at me and knew then that I was 'Holmes'. And where would a thief have ever met my brother? Why, only when her services were requested in the assassination of an African despot. Probably not for the actual kill. Document retrieval or something. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all.

When she emerges, he's not by the door anymore. He's away in the living room, standing where he _thinks_ he'll be able to line her up with the window. Invites her to have a seat, and I'll be honest with you, I only just bite back the urge to interrupt. To tell them that, if she wanted to, she would have taken one by now, that she's really much more at home than he is. Danielle stays back against the wall and smiles over at him.

"Call him off and we'll talk."

"Surely you know I can't do that."

"I'm not going to kill you, Mr Holmes."

"Michael Steele begs to differ."

"He was a direct threat to me. And he'd threatened a close friend."

"Darcy?"

"Yes." Scratching the paper stitches on her face; lying. Referring to the third party, the accomplice, the one I can't pin down. Or is 'close friend' the lie? She's such a canny creature it makes her hard to analyse on the hoof like this. It could mean anything.

Mycroft simply will not call his man to stand down. Mies responds by edging further back. She sits at the breakfast bar, with her back to it. She is less than two feet from me and does not so much as acknowledge my existence. And I, to my utter disgust, am momentarily distracted by the hollow where her neck meets her shoulder and its proximity, missing my chance to even pass comment. And all of this, Mycroft sees and seethes. I'm sitting so near her it's hard to tell which of us his hate is directed at. More than likely it's me. Harbouring a fugitive, especially this one. That's one of those _law_ things he likes so much…

Thou shalt not sabotage thy brother's very important work.

"Listen, Mr Holmes," and I'm stupid enough to look up, like there's a chance she's talking to me, "Two weeks is far too much foreplay, so let's just get this over with." Oh, how very typical. And it has the desired effect; Mycroft shifts, only very slightly, one loafer to the other, but enough to steady her hand. You see, she's got her elbow propped on the worktop and she shouldn't. Yes it stretches her ribcage where she needs it, but it leaves her damaged hand hanging, and makes the shaking really very noticeable.

Please don't ask me why. But I get up. Wheel away from them. Light a cigarette in another corner and draw once, deeply, before leaving it leaning against the side of a saucer-ashtray. And then I leave the saucer at her other side. Mies reaches across. Doesn't so much as glance at me. And she is moderate and genteel with the first drag, but if you watch her, the loosening of her shoulders, the flutter of the eyes, she's grateful. Nicotine stabilizes her. She continues, "Me and Jon Darcy know too much for your liking, and thus you would like us dead. Please don't deny that-"

"There wouldn't be much point in me doing that now, would there?"

"Well, exactly. Now, obviously, me and Jon would rather live. It was a bit stupid of you coming after us, actually. It's not something we ever would have told anybody about. You rather forced our hand. And now, I suppose, my word that we'll be good and keep our mouths shut-?"

A smile, or as close as Mycroft ever gets. There's a veritable battle of little facial tics going on between them. Her slow, elegant head tosses are designed to look blithe and carefree. He reacts to every phrase of hers, and the reactions are accurate as darts of steel, as perfectly calculated, as brief and as painful. Designed to say he's still in control, that he's humouring her. I wonder if he knows she drew him here or if he thinks he really did find her himself.

"Probably won't cut it, Miss Mies."

"That's a pity. It's not the end of the world, though."

"Because of Auguste Gilè."

"You must really hate him. So here's my proposition, from which we can haggle up and down – Darcy and I are allowed to leave the country into new lives and identities, which _we_ will arrange. Then the drawings will be returned to you to do with as you please." He laughs, in that same precise fashion. "I know. It involves so much _trust_ and me a member of the criminal classes… So make me an offer, Mr Holmes. You always manage to make them sound so very appealing."

Ah, there it is; confirmation of the theory. Mycroft was the one who manipulated Mies and Darcy into the murder, and who afterwards got edgy and tried to remove them from the game. She's right, you know; he didn't have to. Not if they thought they were avenging their parents. As a matter of fact they _were_, so what's the harm…?

Weren't they?

But enough of this, I'm missing the exchange.

"Given the nature of your profession and that of your most recent digression, a gentleman must accept your silence in exchange for his own. That much, we can agree on. But I think you know, Miss Mies, I'm going to need a little more assurance than just _your word_…"

"Why? I'm a thief, not a liar." He gives her his best 'oh, please' eyes. I grew up with that, but she doesn't have my immunity. "Oh, alright, then. What were you thinking? I've still got the Roslyn Diamond hanging around somewhere."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. What about…" Mycroft stops, pretending to think about it, pretending there's room for argument. And he starts, swinging step by easy step, across the room. Towards her. Not afraid anymore. She stays where she is, but I draw back. "…Darcy?"

Mies laughs. It's bright and bemused but she's terrified now. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come now. He wouldn't be the first _partner_ you've sold out, the first _pawn_ you've sacrificed."

…That's a dig at me, isn't it?

"Out of the question."

"No it's not." He's close enough for her to exhale smoke in his face, but he continues, "It's nothing to do with me, of course. The new King wants blood and he knows you're both in England. If we can't give him _something_, it looks bad for us. Think of it as Jon giving his life for you, Danielle. And you know he'd do that. Willingly. I'm told you have that effect on the _weak-of-mind_…"

Alright, that was definitely a dig. Need to have a word with Mycroft after this, ensure he knows he gave her far more what she wanted than I did, that he's the only pawn in the room. She was ready for him, waiting, that's why she's got it all worked out, got an answer for everything, so why isn't she answering?

Why's she gone all quiet now? And there's a quality to the silence which is _not_ fear or confusion or any acceptable excuse. It's a much more familiar silence than that. She's _thinking_ about it…

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Yeah, so Hugo's appeared.

He's broken out his best black leather waistcoat and lime green snakeskin coat for the occasion, and I must say he looks awful pleased with himself. I don't think he knows why Darcy looks looking over at me with his eyebrows up. Maybe he thinks dear Jon is in awe of him or something. He's not. He's asking me, repeatedly if he should kill him. Actually, he's getting a bit fervent now. I think he's asking me now if he _may_ kill him. Answer's still no. Then the safe house won't be safe anymore. Now, if it _comes down to it_ and we're stuck, certainly he may, but we'll just do this the easy way for now.

Hugo is grinning. If Darcy really is craving a bit of the old ultra-violence he could put all those rotten tooth-stumps out for me; we'll force dentures on him and civilized conversation will once more become a possibility.

"Do you _want_ something, Hugo?" I start, when it's clear the man himself has no intention. He's glowing all over, so taken with whatever he's got he can't even use it.

"I want my fingers back, Mr Moriarty," he says with great mad eyes.

"Yeah, certainly. I keep them in a jar at the back of the fridge. It's caused a few problems looking for horseradish in the night, I'll tell you th-"

"No jokes!" he bursts. Raging, all veins. Darcy, I'm pleased though not surprised to say, steps forward to meet him, and Hugo settles. Clears his throat. Gives a nasty little laugh. "Failing the return of said digits, I'd like the worth of them."

"And what's that?"

"Five-a-piece."

"Darcy, have you got two tens for a twenty? I don't carry anything that small these days."

Hugo, bored with me, "Million, Mr Moriarty."

And I know he's a cripple and I know he's my fault and these things can burn a man, I know that, I truly do, but I can't help it – it sets me off. I laugh until it hurts. The last time it was this bad was when I first met Mies and figured out about her condition. The difference being that when she then proceeded to bend me over there was something to be properly afraid of. Hugo, on the other hand… I can do nothing but laugh.

"Hugo, get a pair of ash twigs, strip the bark off, nobody'll know the difference. By the way, what the _fuck_ do you think you're even doing here? Why have you brought demands to my temporary door? Why are you suddenly unaware of the fact that I have the two twigs in question and don't like odd numbers?" I finally concede the nod and Darcy places the muzzle of his decorated gun to Hugo's temple. "Oh, and there's him and all."

Y'know, I'm almost fecking jealous. Hugo has clearly gone to that place beyond sanity, where the trees drip honey and the sun always shines, and he's laughing his nasty laugh as rainbow squirrels dart about at his feet.

Darcy cuts his eyes at me as if to ask what sort of company I keep, and that's the last straw. It's one very irritating thing to sit there giggling at me. It's another to do it in front of my new sniper.

"Swift losing patience, Hugo, most swift."

"I wouldn't," he says, "If I were you. I let lots of people know I was coming over here today. Lots of friends who'll wonder where I've gone."

"While I would never pretend to know anything of your personal life, I am all too well acquainted with your personality, your attitude to personal hygiene, and the peculiar taint you manage to place upon every iota of oxygen to pass your lips, and I will tell you, Hugo, for your own good, you don't have any friends."

"Can I _shoot_ him, now?"

"I've got friends at the Met," Hugo says, and Darcy shuts up, and for a half-a-second, so do I. That's the one group he could have named where I would believe he has mates. Most of them stink like he does. "They know where I've come visiting today."

"…Ten million for your fingers, Hugo?"

"Don't say you're not good for it." I don't. Mostly I do it to watch Darcy's eyes flick over. He straightens up when he's impressed and looks even more impressive himself. We're going to work well together, I can tell. Provided his mental mate survives and he doesn't go off the rails with grief.

Which reminds me; him and me really should be getting back in touch with Danielle around now. The passports ought to be here by this afternoon and she needs to start pulling up her end of the bargain. Hugo's _here_, certainly, but I don't have time for him.

"You must think you've got the _best_ trade, asking for that."

"Oh, I do. See, I'm here, which means I know where you are. And I know who _he_ is and all," cutting his eyes up at Darcy. "Lots of people interested in finding out where you lot are hiding. And the paintings."

"The girl," Darcy hisses to me. Meaning Junkie-Ruby. Meaning he thinks she gave us up in exchange for some reward. It's a natural assumption, certainly. But he doesn't know Hugo and his daughter like I do. He was the one who put her on the junk in the first place. So any time information gets to Hugo through Ruby, I find it hard to blame the woman herself.

Hugo grins, "She's a good girl, our Ruby."

But this is not the time to lose the head. No. If I could forget, even for a millisecond, that the person I'm dealing with is the shambling, twiggy heap that is Hugo Tudor, maybe I'd be in danger. Maybe he'd proper have something if for one single moment I could put from my mind the utter fucking _uselessness_ of the cunt I see before me, but I can't. He stinks and he's wearing green snakeskin. How can I forget?

Nah. It was a good effort, Hugo. It was a gambit more intelligent than I would have allowed for you.

But you're still fucked.

"So that's it, is it? Ten million or we're as good as captured, me, him and the drawings. And then I bet you'll take your little extortion racket to the spooks, give them Mies directly, right?"

"Well, Dani's a good girl and all but-"

"But she's worth more to you dead. Understandable, Hugo. Commendable, even. An honest detachment from sentiment and a recognition of your own self-preservatory instincts. Love it, Hugo, love everything about it."

He's getting a bit edgy now. He's getting a bit shifty. He's looking for the door, but all he sees when he turns his head is Darcy.

"But you've got a bit of a problem, old buddy, old pal… Like, for instance, tall dark gent by your side there, what do you think his name is?"

"Nah," he gabbles. "Nah, nah, you're not messing me about, that there's Jon Darcy and you're not messing me about and-"

"No, no, you're quite right. I'm not. But that's still not Jon Darcy. Jon Darcy is at a distant, undisclosed location. And the pictures are with him."

"But… But…"

"But Danielle was here, is that what you're trying to stammer at me, Hugo? I wish you wouldn't, you spit when you stammer and I'm going to have to clean this fucking table. Well, that's true. But she came here so she wouldn't be leading Junkie-Ruby direct to Mr Darcy, recall? The gent next to you is Sebastian Moran. He's an associate of mine. He's down from Liverpool on a job and agreed she could stop off here. Old friend of Dani's, aren't you, Seb?"

Hugo starts up that old chorus again, 'Nah, nah' and 'But, but', while me and 'Seb' explain over his head how he knows Danielle the way she gets to know most of her friends and start talking about the last job they did together and how sorry he felt when he saw her all black and blue and Hugo realizes, slowly, that he has fuck-all, really, and tries to get up.

"Is this man a threat to the lady in question?" 'Seb' says, pushing him back down with the muzzle of the gun.

"I don't know. Are you, Hugo? Or are you going to go home and stay there until at least Friday, curled up in a drunken little ball and not doing anybody any harm?"

I'm saying all that. Hugo's starting to nod. Above his head, not looking at anybody in particular, Darcy is shaking his. And at the last minute he drops the gun back in his hand, with the corner clenched tight in his palm, and he brings it down on the back of Hugo's neck.

He's still twitching, so it's not a repeat of the fire extinguisher incident.

"Sorry," he says. "I was just really sick of him." Sticks the gun back in his trousers and lifts Hugo under both arms. "Is there anything in that cupboard under the stairs?"

Me, a little dazed, "…No. Go ahead."

There's a new silence, except for all the grunting and shuffling.

Directly over my head, up in one of the bedrooms, there's a bright, tuneless beeping. "…Darcy, is that your phone?"

And if it is how long has it been ringing, and why is she calling back, and what if we're supposed to be somewhere else right now?

"Shit," he mutters, and runs for it.

I'd follow, only I stop to give Hugo a decent kicking for distracting us.


	51. Alternate World:Real World

_Jim_

Three missed calls, and two gone to voicemail.

The first message starts with a string of swearing fading off the rings. To pick up where the bulk of the foul language leaves off, "…fuck's sake, boys! Listen, he's here. MI6, I mean. So yeah, I'll play it with no support, fine, I'll manage, but you can't argue with me afterwards, you pair of fucking tits! Jon, for fuck's sake, pick up. I could give a shit less about the other one, but please, Jon, call back so I can get you to come and help. I can call you and there's a man on the roof where you can get him and you could help me, maybe? I've got about two minutes, tiger, call me back."

And by the second message there's no swearing at all. In fact, Danielle's voice has gone hollow, and can hardly seem to manage her sparse, broken sentences. "Jon… _Christ_, Jon… Changed my mind, okay? Don't come. Fucked up, mate… Serious trouble… Tell Jim to call me… Don't care how he feels… You can convince him… Okay?"

By which stage, I'm already ringing her. That message was the call we missed while Darcy was putting Hugo in the cupboard.

It all sounds to me like Jon has _done_ something. I can't quite believe that, so the next logical conclusion is that they've _told_ her Jon's done something. But I can't quite believe that she'd believe that. So I'm forced to believe that she's in real, proper trouble, that the words 'fucked up' are not just her usual vulgar overstatement. That it's perfectly alright that Darcy doesn't have to 'convince' me; I just call.

"Hello?"

"Jim? Is Jon still there?"

"Yeah. Do you want to talk to him?

"_No_. God, no… Is he with you, is he listening?"

Me being the smart and frequently gentle soul that I am, I would lie for him. Only Jon doesn't give me the chance. He grabs the phone off me and starts asking what she's talking about, where she is, they can work it out, everything's fine, don't stress, Dani… In the course of which, Dani hangs up.

When she calls back, I say, "Yeah, yeah, he's here."

"Am I off speaker, now?"

"Yes."

"I'm back at my flat. Where I got ready for the opera, remember? Can you come here?"

"Danielle, what the fuck's going on?"

"You know that alternate universe where you work for clients? Pretend this is it. I need you to. Please?"

"…Half an hour."

"Hurry."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

She left. Really very quickly and muttering about my surname being Holmes. For a while she thought it was all some elaborate set-up. Even when she realized it couldn't have been, it only made her worse. The world was out to get her and that was all I was – a part of the world, a paranoid nightmare.

She left first. Mycroft made sure of that. It protects him, stops the man on the opposite roof getting any funny ideas about who's in control, who to shoot. But that didn't give me the second with her that I wanted. Because I wanted to ask her if there was a reason she had come to _me_. There must be plenty of places she could have gone, plenty of ways to attract official attention. Why me? I'd done a lot for her and her appreciation of it was genuine. I'm convinced of that. I saw that in her face last night. She was grateful to me. So what brought her back _here, _of all those places? Why _me_? If she didn't know who I really was, didn't know it would bring her face to face with her great nemesis, then _why_ come here?

Mycroft is sitting in _my_ armchair, with his legs crossed and his fingers tented. Staring out over them like somewhere in the middle distance he is trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with only his gaze.

"Do you want my considered opinion?" I ask him.

"No."

"Mies and Darcy mean you absolutely no harm. The only mistake made in the whole operation was your decision to have them killed."

"It wasn't my decision, Sherlock."

"If you'll pardon my strength of feeling, Mycroft, bollocks it wasn't."

"Not mine _alone_."

"Oh, but someday, dear brother, hm? Someday, if you can mop up nasty little spills like this one, someday that'll be _your_ decision, all by yourself, won't it? Someday you'll have climbed up high enough to have sole access to the lever of the guillotine, yes?"

Finally looking away from his puzzle and suddenly, piercingly, at me, "Tell me, _dear brother_, have you taken a moment to look at _yourself_ in all of this? You're awfully _vocal_," he says, "Awfully… _defensive_." I have absolutely no idea what he's on about. None whatever. The best I can do is allow him to continue until I know what I'm arguing against. He takes my prolonged silence for weakness and continues, "What did Mies say to you, Sherlock? Why did you think you could hide her here?"

Still with his fingers tented, still staring over them, but turned now towards me.

Like a psychiatrist, and all I can hear in my mind is the echo of a much-repeated question, and the one he's really asking me now –

_And how did that make you feel_...?

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Danielle looks dead. Worse than the first time we met when she was still suffering the National Gallery. Looks like the beating and the exhaustion have all caught up with her, and empty and speechless like she was on the phone.

She's sitting on the iron spiral staircase that winds up to the bedroom on the mezzanine. There's a colourful scatter of empty Starburst wrappers around her. There's black coffee on the stove, untouched, and a Magner's bottle on the stair by her side, nearly empty. She started out straight and sensible and wanting her wits about her, certainly, but the allure of stupor was too much to resist.

Jesus, I hate this place. I _itch_. It's all her, all her smell, all her hairs in her carpet, her cat's abandoned litter tray starting to stink by the bin. It clings like a thick, hot day. But she's sobbing on the stairwell, holding her head, so I have to at least step inside and shut the door.

"Jesus Christ, kitten…" Fuck, where did that come from? That was a term of endearment. That wasn't even a sarcastic one. I've never heard a sarcastic 'kitten' in my life. It's just all this tiger talk, more than likely. It's just the thought of Treadstone all on his own, wandering around Soho. Maybe he'll find his way back to that skanky place she sent me for the drawings and be alright. Yeah, that's all it is.

"Jim?" By the time she says my name, even that half-second, there are no more tears. Nothing. Not a hint of him, and all the evidence dragged away on the cuff of an outsized sweater. "So you _did_ come…"

"Yeah. I think it was the bit about alternate universes that really nailed it, y'know? Nothing like a bit of science-fiction to bring a fella running to your aid…"

"I'll remember that. I'll wear my Uhura smock next time." She doesn't mean to make a joke. The joke breaks down, first into laughter, which gets gradually more desperate, and then into one wet choke before she puts the crying away again. "I fucked up, Jim. Because… because he said… He said I had to-… And he wasn't going to take no for an answer. It was one of those things – I thought I'd be able to think of a way around it. But… But I can't think of anything, y'know? It's not me, for once. For once I'm safe… But it's Jon. You won't do it for me. I don't know why, but you won't… But will you help me help him?"

She's practiced this.

I bet she's practiced this.

It's too fucking effective for her to be being honest.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

"If you're trying to say something, Mycroft, I'd much rather you just said it."

"I just don't like to see my own flesh and blood manipulated-"

"Oh,_ please_-"

"-And humiliated."

He continues, by the way. I'm not really listening, but I can _hear_ him and he continues. Goes on about 'humiliation'. "That," he says, "is just exactly what it is." Goes on to explain to me why I should be feeling embarrassed and used, why I should despise her. He continues. I try not to hear him. And there's no craving just yet, so there should be no trouble putting up the usual filters. And yet I hear him. I hear every word. He tells me about the way a mind like Mies' works, that some people see others as nothing more than stairs and bridges.

He says he didn't send a raid team in here to simply apprehend and kill her because of _me_. Because somehow he thought this would be easier for me. This, he says, will give me more closure. Their conversation, the way she ignored me from the moment he arrived, that's supposed to teach me about the sort of person she really is and why she was here.

It's awful.

It's very, very difficult to listen to.

And the worst part? He says it all as if I didn't know it already. I knew she wasn't here just to be _nice_. If Mies had genuinely wanted to hide she could have shacked up anywhere. I _knew_ all of this and yet he sits there and tells it to me and I can't tune him out. Try as I might, I can't. I sit and listen to him telling me how Danielle Mies made a fool of me and just agreed to sell out her own childhood friend in her own defence.

I _listen_ to it, and because Mycroft says it, it has to matter. I forgot last night. I chose to. For a moment, just for a moment, I forgot.

_How does that make _me_ feel?_ Just for a moment? I wasn't junkie scum.

Was it worth it? Well, that's not my problem anymore. It's gone now. One way or another, whether she does what she said she would or whether Mycroft has her killed, that's all gone now.

* * *

><p>[AN - Hey guys. Getting kind of close to the end now. I'll probably take off for the rest of the week, get it all figured it out, make it perfect for you. Hence the three chapters today - one for you lovely people, one to see me off, and one in celebration of the Most Deserved BAFTA Ever! I really, really hope you're all still enjoying this (hint-hint) Back Soon, Sal.]


	52. Step Off:Step Up

_Sherlock_

Mycroft won't leave. Seems to think I intend to… how did Mies put it? _Do myself a mischief_… And he's got nothing else on at this precise moment. He said as much on the phone. Telling somebody to keep an eye on her and give her the reins, within reason. But in the meantime, I'm allowed to take up a little of his attention.

He's found the broken violin bow next to the armchair. I set it down last night when it became clear I wouldn't have to hit her with it. When I turn back from the kettle, he's toying with it, balanced straight up from his fingers like a candle, wavering slightly, the severed hair trailing.

"Your handiwork?"

"Mies'. Undoing the thing that undid her. If she's nothing else she's poetic."

"And you, Sherlock, are nothing if not foolish, believing something so trivial as a scar, maybe a little nerve damage, will _undo_ her."

Me? Foolish? Mycroft hasn't been keeping up with his research or he'd have known I meant her condition. I should remind him. Mostly so I don't have to be wrong. But it's so very _lovely_ to see him at a disadvantage for once. I say nothing. Actually, I'm content to ignore him entirely so he can just _leave_, but he's not going anywhere. I pass, on my way back to bed with my coffee, and notice that he's smiling.

Shouldn't stop.

Should just go on ignoring him

I've been doing so well.

…No, can't do it. "Something funny, Mycroft?"

"I thought you were better than this."

"Than what?"

"You didn't correct me. You indicated that you had used the violin bow as some sort of weapon. I implied the assumption that you meant nothing more than the lash to the face. And you did not correct me. Hiding the arrows from the bow, as it were. Now why would you do that?"

And yes, I could stand here and tell him I just liked the idea of him having incomplete intelligence, but really, I'd much rather just be moving on to bed. Curl up. Coffee. Read something. Stay in there and leave him out here until he leaves.

Mycroft calls after me. "There's a part of you that knows exactly what's gone on here. She used you to get to me. Now if you were being sensible, you'd hate her already. I don't even like to guess why you might be fighting that. But do us all a favour and go with it."

And it strikes me, sudden and perfect, Mycroft's not still here because he's concerned about how I might react. As a matter of fact, that's all he's waiting for. If I, at this very moment, were to fly into a blind rage and curse the name of Mies to all the heavens and tear down the walls with my nails and teeth, he'd be off like a shot. That's all he wants. He's staying in case I do something stupid like try to help the losing side.

The revelation is sickening. It holds me frozen in the hallway while he gets up and starts to make himself tea. This is alright. I can deal with this. And someday there will be no shocks left and nothing will leave me useless like this ever again. Right now, as he says, I just have to go with it.

"…This matters to you, doesn't it, Mycroft?"

"The stability of the country depends o-"

"No it doesn't. But you do. There's something to this. Your advancement or promotion or your security clearance level, there's something hanging on this, isn't there?" And nothing else matters. Nobody else matters. Not Mies or Darcy, not Lestrade, not Molly Hooper, not me. Brother, liability, scum, the only reason for him to take an interest in me is when he stands to lose out.

For instance, imagine two children, and the younger of the two tells their mother he's decided what he wants to do with his life, and proceeds to outline his perfectly serious and actually-relatively-sound plans for a naval commission and eventual breakaway from the rigid structure of the military into a life of eventual adventure and piracy. The mother is in a good mood, decides to be indulgent. She smiles. Her smiles are warm and beautiful and very rare gifts. And because the younger has had one and he hasn't, the elder boy interrupts. He outlines, with equal eloquence and logical prowess, both the internal inconsistencies of the plan itself and the contemporary infeasibility of the pursuit as a whole.

What I'm saying is, Mycroft is never happy with any less than the lion's share. What I'm saying is, there's a reason my brother lives alone.

I want to go back to bed. But then again no. No, specifically, I want to go back to this morning, in the predawn. Not to Danielle or her closeness or to anybody, but to the _feeling_ of it. There was nothing. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was about to go wrong. Nothing was looming, and there were no lingering shadows. There's no such thing as peace like that. Like the very first hit, like the very first time, you can chase an empty head like that forever.

I think I might actually be sick of the case.

"You've nothing to worry about," I tell Mycroft. The words come from very far away. My voice sounds like someone else's. But I don't mean it. "I'll stay out it. I'll be a spectator. Now, Mycroft, have your tea and loosen up. But if you wouldn't mind too terribly, after that? Piss off, would you…"

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

All over again, fresh as the first, I'm all but overwhelmed by the urge to murder Danielle. "You promised him _what_?"

"You heard me."

"Confirm for me that it's you that's gone mad and not me."

"I told him I'd hand him Darcy if I could walk." We are still, by the way, exactly where we were before. She's got her head in her hands on the stairwell and I'm in the middle of the room, as far away from anything as I can get with my hands in my pockets. Maybe she should be comforted. Maybe, as common parlance would have it, Dani needs a hug. But she doesn't fucking deserve one. "You're looking at me like I meant it!" she moans.

"Well, he let you go, didn't he? And Person Of Fucking Interest wasn't exactly clinging to your leg!"

"…You're saying I must have looked honest in front of Holmes, and therefore my contact knew me to be a liar."

"You get awfully eloquent when you're cornered, dear."

"I get awfully eloquent when I'm considering murder."

"Oh, you too?"

Shakily, wearily, hauling herself up on the handrail, Danielle stands. Bends her ankle on the first step, but after that she steadies. Gradually approaches, "You can't kill me. You don't have a gun and you don't want to kill me with anything closer. Me, though, I've got none of your dermophobic pretentions and _all_ my options open, so why don't you listen?"

I won't step back. I won't. I'll pull back as far as I possibly can on this spot, but until I can see the whites of her bloodied eyes, I'm not stepping back. Anyway, she's being so eloquent, if I'm ever going to listen quiet like a good boy, this is the time.

"Do you honestly think I would have gone through all this shit the past two weeks if I was just going to hand Jon in at the end of it? I could have sold him out a dozen times before I got out of Goganye. I could be in Hawaii by now. And, Christ forgive me, he never even would have seen it coming. He's effective, yeah, he's brave and strong and loyal, but Jim, he's _thick_ when it comes to these things. You've seen that yourself."

And by now she's getting very close, and I'm considering that step back. But she's waiting for that. That would just make her day. That would mean I was about to relent and concede her every whim without question. As dangerous as the trace of her perfume might be, I won't give her the satisfaction.

…Look at that, she's not the only one who gets eloquent as fuck at times of great stress.

"Jim, I have absolutely no idea what to do. Now," and I feel this next, breathed clammy and fetid over my face, "I never wanted to threaten you, but I'll just remind you, you're in this just as deep as we are. The only thing they don't have on you is a name, so far as I can tell and guess what, Jim Moriarty, I know your fucking name."

"This is a bit beneath you, isn't it?"

"Back to the wall, remember? And you don't like me anymore, remember? So what have I got to lose?"

With the handkerchief from my pocket and her t-shirt between us, I reach out and push her back. I push quite definitely, just about the waist, on the left hand side of her ribcage. Danielle hisses and reels away, clutching it. Staggers against the back of the sofa and hangs there, breathing through it.

Such an actress. I didn't push her that hard. I've had broken ribs, alright? And yes, it's like getting stabbed every time you breathe, but there's no need for these theatrics. That big swollen bruise when she lifts up the t-shirt, tenderly poking at the patchy grey, that's normal. Anyway, she had her chance to curl up in a warm bed and recuperate and would she take it?

"…What if _I_ don't know what to do about it?"

Still hissing through her teeth, "Then you're not the man I thought you were." She glares at me, shoves off the sofa and weaves into her tiny kitchen. I follow. There's a pharmacy wholesale jar of aspirin on the counter and a fair-size dent made in it already. She crushes a few under a tumbler, scrapes the dust in. Wants to top it up with whiskey, but she can't get into the cupboard, can't reach up. Shoulder seems to be fucked… I watch for a while, then get it for her.

Because her shoulder's fucked. Because she can be disabled with the pressure of a fingertip. Because she, in short, wouldn't be giving up a big strong lug like Darcy at this stage, not for diamonds.

So while I'm thinking about what to do she's slugging back this potent, unadvisable mix. It starts to hit her and her eyes drift, wobbling. Under her breath, she's humming, occasionally getting as far as the lyrics. _Typical me_, she's muttering, _I started something I couldn't finish._

"Didn't you just, love… Been bonding with last night's love-song, have we?"

She giggles. Sounding sober, still exhausted, still very much present, "You're so easy…"

Oh.

Yeah. Because it was Ruby who was talking about Person-Of-Interest and his Morrissey thing. Because I wasn't supposed to be listening in on that conversation.

"What exactly did I say in that bedroom that pissed you off so much?"

That I was not yet evil. That I still had time and a heart and if I was only open to it, I could be saved. And what I'd really like to know, Danielle, is what you meant by the word 'saved', because I know for a fact you're not one of these born-again nutters, and what I'd really _really_ like to know is why that would even fecking occur to you, that concept of my salvation, spiritual or otherwise or however you fecking meant it, see first question, and what you think _you_ could ever possibly have to do with any such act whether feasible or welcome or whatever it might not be, and- "Will you shut up while _I_ try to save _your_ mate?"

"Certainly." Holding out the tumbler, "Spiked livener?"

"What _time_ is it?"

She laughs, narrating, "He says, like any of us sleep and time still has any meaning…" Shoves the glass into my hand. I turn it round, away from the print of her lips, before I drink.

"…What do you know about this Holmes fella?"

"Not much. Anyway, I wouldn't rely on him. It's a compartmental system. Honestly, it was just massive coincidence I met the same guy twice…"

"…Say that again."

"What? Rarely meet the same government representative twice?"

"Put your drink down."

"Why?"

"I want you in full control of yourself. Last time I came up with something really clever that hauled your vain little arse out of the fire-"

"_Little_!"

"-I rest my case. Last time I did that you got all funny round the eyes and offered eternal gratitude. I need to know you can hold yourself off before I chance it again."


	53. Poetic:Prosaic

_Jim_

Slowly and carefully, thinking it out, I tell her what we're going to do. I tell her we used to have lots of options and now we have only a few and this is the best of them. I tell her in detail how it will work, what few things are in our favour, and she is left absolutely certain that it's a lot of fecking _hassle_ for me.

She tosses her cynical head, mutters, "You love it, you slag."

For a second I almost call her out on that. I almost try to get her to take that back. But then it strikes me she's right. She doesn't mean to be, obviously, but fools can be awfully wise when they're not thinking about it.

It's like school. They used to make us write these great long essays about whatever the church was up to any given time of year. Like clockwork. Start of March there's one about St Patrick, middle of December you do the Christmas story. It was the only way I could ever tell Easter was coming up, was we'd do the Lent essay. Same fecking soul-destroying shite every year, but every year you were older and the essay was expected to be longer, even though there obviously comes a point where you don't know any more than you did before and – Sorry. Bad trip, bad flashback.

Then there's this one fella. English teacher. Fucking hippy, right, with his ponytail going steely-grey down his back, and he starts talking about haiku. Which are these little Japanese poems with a million rules and seventeen fecking syllables to do it in and _that_ – that was interesting.

Stop laughing. I know you're fecking laughing and I was good at them tiny little things, so just stop laughing, because I was _good_.

Where was I taking this again? I had a point when I started this.

Oh, aye. Dani. Being nearly right by accident. Saying I was enjoying the particular little task at hand, and I am. This is why. Haiku. Tiny little details with a million rules and constrictions. Putting every perfect syllable in the perfect place with perfect timing. The rules make it more fun.

When I run a job, it's because I want to. Because I see it and because it can be done. This is a new challenge. Everything's the same, except I've got one hand tied behind my back.

I've been drifting. Danielle leans into my line of sight and I flinch. "Jim? Still with me?"

"'Course I am. I'm thinking."

"Do you really think it'll work?" She's looking right at me and her eyes are huge, lips parted. None of that funny look about her, not just yet. No, this is her scared, and wanting me to say yes, absolutely, it'll work, she's safe, I'll protect her, and it is much, much easier to explain why I find this so gratifying.

I will not for one second deny that what I say next will be designed to keep her scared and vulnerable and unnerved, because it's more than she's worthy of.

"How could I possibly be sure of this? It does go _just a little bit_ beyond the everyday, does it not? I mean, I don't know what _you_ do in between_ Jeremy Kyle_ and _Countdown_, but _I_ certainly do not spend that time fucking about with Her Majesty's."

"Scale of one to ten, Jim. One being we all fall down and ten being knighthoods…"

"About a four, four-and-a-half?"

This is better than she was expecting. Matter-of-fact, she looks impressed. "I can work with a four."

"What about your end?" Much as it pains me, she's actually quite important to the plan. Her and her various contacts. I'd reached one particular part of my explanation where I thought she might at least have questions, but it passed without event.

"Oh, yeah, _no_ fear. I've got a fella in mind."

"Yeah, well, get on with him then. Sooner you do that, sooner I can start. And you should probably… y'know, _rest up_, or whatever it is severely beaten, half-slept people do."

"Oh, I tried. Where you found me is as far up the stairs as I got. I'll be on the sofa, I think."

"You were going to go to bed and just leave me to sort all this out, weren't you?"

"Pretty much. Listen, I'll go out and talk to my guy now, right? But…" She goes all shy and sheepish. Oh, just the perfect little actress, when she wants to be. God, that almost looks like real pain when she looks away, when she won't meet my eyes. And I prompt her, 'But what?' but she shakes her head and tries telling me it doesn't matter, like that's going to work. "No, come on, spit it out. From the look on your face it's another massive bloody favour."

"That's true, actually, that's exactly what it is…"

"How _did_ I guess?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, I _told_ you, doesn't matter…"

Not acting. In genuine distress. Fighting with herself over what she wants to say and whether or not to say it. All of a sudden I feel like a prick. Watch her lowering herself onto the sofa, braced between the arm and the back until she's sunk low. Still not looking at me. "I'm messing you about, Danielle; what is it?"

Her eyes start to shut, then flick open. Fighting sleep. "Look, I know… _how you are_ about certain things, so I know it's asking a lot but… Could you work from here?" No. Never in a million years. Even at home, in my own space, the simple knowledge that she had been there pretty much prevented me from doing anything useful. No. Sorry, love, can't be done. There's no way I can possibly be effective in saving yourself and Mr Darcy if I've constantly got this rank, clammy, rotten rubbish feeling of being in _your_ space all over me, no way. "I know it's stupid, given I plan to be unconscious any moment I'm not directly necessary but… I just really don't want to be on my own right now."

She doesn't, either; she's holding a cushion against herself, wrapped tight in both arms and with her face pressed into it. Eyes closing again as she rubs against it and this time it isn't sleep sneaking in there, this time it's something else.

"…Person Of Interest did some fecking number on you, didn't he, angel?"

Being caught takes all the magic out of it and she pushes the pillow away. Starts getting up again. "Oh, fuck off. You can just say no, you don't have to be horrible about it."

"Danielle-"

"No, really, I understand. Call me if you-"

"Dani, I'll stay."

Thinking to myself, _People always know/The price of what they ask for./They fear the word 'Free'._

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Mycroft does exactly as I told him. He drinks his tea and leaves. The cheese and biscuits are a gracenote of his own, but the victory is still mine. Mycroft thinks the blue bits in that cheese are intentional, bless his upper-middle-class heart. It's not liable to leave him with anything worse that a couple of days mild discomfort, either, so I don't have to feel too awful about wishing it upon him.

Anyway, once he's gone I can finally get back out of the bedroom. That wasn't such a good idea as I had thought, actually. Apparently it's not as simple as shaking out the dent somebody left in the sheets. Found it very difficult to sit down. Difficult to look at where we'd been, Mies and I. Much better altogether to strip the sheets from the bed and, now that I'm free, leave them bundled behind the door for the next trip down to the basement laundry. Better altogether not to think of them at all.

Maybe I'll just leave all that behind. I mean, you hear all this nonsense about 'putting one's affairs in order' and 'cleaning house'. And yes, certainly, there's a place for all that. But it's horribly sentimental, at heart, and really I don't have an awful lot to organize.

I know what you're thinking, by the way. You all thought I'd had what the counsellors and psychiatrists would term a 'breakthrough'.

Let me explain something to you; last night's little distraction did no more than confirm to me that I had the right idea in the first place. Nothing, emotional or chemical, is ever going to feel genuine and real and empty and beautiful ever again. And what, I ask you, is the point, of rambling on in a second-rate world? A world which has, more than once, offered better and, pardon the pun, higher things, only to then recant. People will lie to you, yes, of course, it's human nature. Nine times in every ten you'll feel better for the lie. Just go with it, just get over that. Honesty is very rarely the prudent course of action and still more rare is the occasion when it's the right thing to bloody do.

But when the _world_, when your own stinking existence, starts lying to you, well, then, maybe it's time to call it quits.

Danielle's taken off with a corner of the stash still in her jeans pocket, but there's more than that. I told you before, I had a few days' worth.

In a way, this is a much better version of events. There was too much going on, yesterday. Curled in a bath on a day of untold trauma? Do me a favour… Not the message one wants to send out at all, now, is it? Christ no. There will be nothing of the stark, naked corpse about this, thank you very much. This will be dignified and controlled. A simple statement, a plain, honest 'No thank you' to the fickle, hateful, petty little cruelties of the world. Executed (if you'll pardon another pun) with the sparse elegance of Hemingway. Yes, this is much better.

When you think about it, Mies did me a favour, putting this delay together. Not only that but, just in case I was interested, just in case it occurred to me upon my dying breath, she helped to prove that there is honestly no other way.

That's another thing you hear a lot of very destructive nonsense about. This terrible, romantic notion that people can _save_ you. People can make all the horrors of the big bad world go away. Finding the right people, the close friend, the sibling, the lover, and keeping them about you, that's the way to cope. That's the way to live wisely and happily.

Don't listen to this bollocks. If I could leave one lesson behind and have all the world hear it, that would be it. Please, for God's sake, don't buy into this ridiculous notion that human relationships are going to make it all better, because they're not. I've told you before, relationships are just exchanges of worth and willing; what you have to offer and what others want from you. Take me and Mies, for example. I had Mycroft and that's what she wanted. She had a kind word and a _bloody_ bacon sandwich and I was easily bought.

That sounds like I regret it, like I blame her. Please don't think that. As I say, it was a massive favour.

People lie. The world lies. And I've had enough.

People lie.

Wait. Wait. Christ, God, _Christ_, people lie, don't they? Fuck's sake, people lie and Mies is just like any other and she lies. She told Mycroft she'd give him Darcy to save herself and I believed it. Didn't blame her, didn't hate it, it's to be expected, that's what people are, it's what they do, but they lie as well, don't they? As well as stealing and cheating and betraying, they lie.

There's been something off about this since the moment Mycroft walked in.

Oh, to hell with the end of _me_. That can be arranged anytime. I'm staying to see the end of _this_. I don't know how _I'd_ do it, but that's something I can give a little thought as I go along. Everybody knows you don't leave before the curtain falls. Not only is it awfully bad form, but that's how you miss the best part. Even the worst fiction has to tie itself up in a bow, and this one, this one is going to gleam and rustle and glitter. You don't walk out when you've finished your part; you stay for the bow.

Top yourself before it's over and you miss the best bit.

People hate liars? People read novels, watch television, films, listen to music. People _love_ liars and they just won't say it.

And my God, to be found stiff in a flat with a vandalized violin bow and sheets rich with staling jasmine perfume? My _God_, they'd say I was a tortured artist; what was I _thinking_? No. Until the curtain falls, I'll stay on my feet, thank you very much…


	54. Circular:Linear

_Sherlock_

Active again. _Proactive,_ in fact. I was onto my third Hugo's before I found Ruby again.

…Is it odd that there was no temptation? I don't think so, personally, but then, I wasn't looking for a score, I was looking for Ruby. What _is_ odd is how disgusting it was, how far away from it all I ended up feeling. Watching it, and knowing that that could be me on any given night, comatose in the corner. Hating it without shame. That was strange.

Luckily, Ruby's already had her booster for the evening. She's dancing again, stretching towards the light fixture in the middle of an empty upstairs room. Looking sad and oblivious. Almost a shame to shock her out of it.

"Evening, Ruby."

She comes down just enough to acknowledge me, opens one eye to check my identity, then shuts it again. Fag waggling in the corner of her mouth, "Alright, ACDC?" She doesn't care that I'm here. Doesn't care that anybody's here, and it's not just that she's high. This is why she _got_ herself into this state. "How's tricks? Or, more spessyff-" The word is 'specifically'. She gets stuck on it and struggles for a couple of seconds, nearly giggles and can't, "-How are _you_, trick?"

"Beg pardon?"

Meanly smiling, "Well, you've had your hooker, haven't you?" Danielle. Ruby must have met her before she came to me. There's a sharp, sudden pain that goes through me; the idea of them together, and discussing me, and knowing her intentions. It's not shame, but it's something like it. I choke it back.

"Not a very nice term for a friend of yours."

"She's not a fakkin friend of mine, alright?"

Oh, wonderful news. Good timing on whatever argument they had. "Will you take me to her?"

"Run off on you already, has she? Or did you fuck her out? I would have fucked her out. I wouldn't have opened my door in the first pl- That's a lie, y'know. I'd've opened the door… I'd've fakkin opened everything, know wha'mean? But you're smarter than I am, you know a fakkin bitch when you see one, don't you, Ace?"

"She's on her own, Ruby."

"_Ooh_, not for long, I'll bet…"

"Last time I was at her apartment I'd followed you. I need you to take me there again." She shakes her head. Spits out the cigarette, stands on it. Tries to light another without opening her eyes. I take it from her and help. But she's still shaking her head, eyes screwed shut. No. "If Mies is your friend, you know she needs help. I can help her. And if she's not your friend then why would you protect her?" She can't dance and think at the same time. The logic is just too much for her. While she's still, while she's off-balance, I take her by the arm and pull her towards the door. "Trust me, it makes sense."

Mournfully, like Cassandra, "You're falling for it. Like fakkin everybody, Ace, like me and Mr Mori… Like everybody does…" But she's taking me there. She keeps up the commentary, the same doleful tone, the whole way, but she's taking me. "See, you and me, we're cursed because we choose to be. We jam it up our arms every couple of hours. Some people don't pick it, they just are, and they just cast it off 'em wherever they go, take it out on everybody else…"

"I'm sorry, have we moved on to fairytales, Ruby?"

"Laugh if you want." And after that she says nothing. Walks until we reach a street corner where everything starts to make sense. "Know where you are now?" I nod, looking up along the windows down the street. "Round the mews, third floor, fourth flat along. Right in the middle. I was going to ask if you'd give her something for me…"

"I think I owe you that much."

"I know that. I just can't decide whether I would have kissed you or spat in your eye, so I might just leave it. Last chance not to go up there, Aces."

I don't understand what she's getting at, what all her moaning's been in aid of, but she looks me in the eye (as far as her swimming vision will allow) and she seems to really mean it, whatever it is.

"Well, if there ever is any favour I can do for you, Ruby-"

"Best just stay away, I think, alright? Nice knowing you, AC."

Ruby walks away while I still don't understand. But Ruby's high and there's nothing to understand, not really.

I get as far as the end of the mews.

There at the gate, an arm weaves through mine and drags me right on along, past the gate, down the street, into a car with tinted windows, with a dark young lady playing with her phone in the front seat and _my brother_ waiting in the back.

Delivered by a black-gloved spook, right back to Mycroft, before sunset.

I never called MI5 inefficient, I swear, not in my darkest of thoughts.

"I had a feeling you'd show up here," he mutters. Got that same tone of voice that Ruby took. Rueful. Like I'm some ancient prince with no choice but to live out the tragedy, step by step. "Just what exactly did you think you were going to do?"

Ask her everything I wanted to ask her this morning, when _he_ made sure I couldn't. And find out what the plan is. And where Darcy is and who their third partner is and how they know each other and the rest of the story. And ask her everything I wanted to ask her this morning.

But because I can't tell Mycroft any of that, I don't say anything. Because I don't say anything, he presumes I have nothing to say. Leaves the spook who escorted me to him on the street and has the driver pull away. End of.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Danielle went and got Darcy. Offered him everything he ever wanted. Turns out he's a selfless kind of person. She told him she'd stop his wife caning the rocks and whoring herself. Told him she'd get the daughter out of the cult. I have no idea what the son's up to, but she didn't even have to talk about. And all he has to do is go to Goganye and get shot in the head above a square full of baying animals. He thought about it for all of about four seconds, before conceding to be stashed away until tomorrow, when he'll be necessary. He hasn't even asked for anything. No proof required. No, 'Wife now, Daughter after' sort of clause. He looked at Danielle as she explained it all to him, and when it was agreed he hugged her. Held on until she peeled herself away. She actually shuddered, right there in front of him. Curled up her face like he _disgusted_ her. And yes, he was disgusting. But she was supposed to be convincing him. And yet he still went with it. I'm not the only one who thinks that's illogical, am I?

Oh, sorry, I should explain. This isn't actually Darcy we're talking about. Darcy's not married, no kids.

No, this is a new Darcy. And by the time I'm done, the world is going to think _he's_ the original, and our everyday, common-or-garden Darcy is going to be somebody else entirely and… Do you know what, maybe you should just wait and find out with the rest of the world.

In short, the replacement Darcy is all lined up. For now, the rest, all the details, all the paperwork, that's me. Darcy can do no more than stay away. And Danielle? You know, I could almost _begrudge_ her sleep, she launched into it with such pleasure. And it's the fact that she keeps giggling to herself and muttering things.

It is, in short, the fact that I'm still in her bloody dump of a flat. Nothing else has changed, you know, everything still stinks. It smells of cat food and that coconut stuff she puts in her hair. And from upstairs, her elevated bedroom, there's a muddy, sweaty smell that's making me itch. I'm trying to concentrate on false documentation, on manipulating people are levels much higher than my usual, and she calls out in her sleep. It might be a laugh or she might just be dreaming, which I don't even want to think about. Gathering up a page I'm finished with (the new Darcy's old birth certificate), I fire it across the kitchenette, over the back of the sofa. There's a rustle when it hits her and another little cry. This one definitely not a laugh. And followed up with a trail of sick little whimpers.

I can't fecking concentrate anyway, so I get up and wander over.

"Stop it. You're not even conscious, how are you still making constant _noise_?" No proper response, except that she stirs, turns over on herself. I've feeling I should poke her and that might stop it, but her sweater is balled up with the cushion under head. All skin. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised anymore, but I can't help it. Always a shock. What'd she call it… My dermophobic pretentions.

My dermophobic pretentions are what's holding us up. If we're not ready by morning it'd because of my dermophobic pretentions.

I don't know if this has ever happened to you, but sometimes when I'm looking at somebody, and I get the urge to kill them, my hands curl up like I'm already strangling them. It's very frustrating when your fingers are closing in and you're not actually getting that crushing feeling beneath them.

That's it.

I'm done with this _pretention_.

I'm going to shake her. Don't look at me like that, I _am_. To hell with her. Anyway, she's not even awake to laugh if I can't do it.

Still muttering away to herself. Saying, Christ help me, 'Stop', and 'Not right now'.

"Danielle. Dani, shut the fuck up or I'm going to poke you. I've got stuff to do over here and you're melting my bloody head, so just shut up. I know I told you I'd stay, but you could wake up and me not be here, y'know. You didn't want to be alone and that's exactly what I'll-" Not working. This is an old problem. If I can talk to somebody, if I've got a way to get them or something I can use, that's no problem. But Danielle is not listening, and that's where I have a problem.

That's where Darcy's going to come in handy. The old Darcy, this is. Our Darcy. He's going to have to be called something else anyway. Darcy will be able to speak in ways that I can't. That gun of his, for instance, that's an eloquent thing.

Actually, that's where somebody like her would come in handy. Not that I'm thinking of keeping Danielle, of course. But somebody _like_ her. She doesn't have to open her mouth sometimes. Even when she does, it's not necessarily to talk. That's a different kind of power again.

Standing over her, and I swear, I swear, I'm not pussing out, I _will_ shake the bitch in a second, but I'm thinking about this now. Because I'm smart, right? And that's power. And Darcy's strong and he's violent, and that's power. And Danielle, and I know she's really subtle about it so you might not have noticed, but she's a sexual being and whether I like it or not, that's a different kind of power again.

Not that I'm contemplating some kind of terrible, hateful trinity.

Have to say, I do like the word trinity, though. Might just be my upbringing.

Danielle seems to like it too, though. She's settling a little. And she was raised a heathen. Rather than shake her I pull the blanket free of her feet and pull it up around her. Not that I'm thinking about anything ridiculous like keeping her too.


	55. Circe:Odysseus

_Jim_

The way the Brit system works, MI5 take care of the internal affairs and MI6 are the _international_ cowboys. The Gilè handover and Danielle's immunity are an MI5 thing, Darcy's deportation is MI6. To them, this is just protocol. That's just a fact of how it all needs to be done. And that's where they make their mistake, because it is their greatest weakness and they don't even think about it.

Overnight, I got into the right people and they got into some low level systems for me. You can change things in those strata without causing a big fuss and it all rolls up. You can change a man's picture and date of birth in a minimum security personnel file and, when the people coming for him print it off, that's who they're going to be looking for.

The only place I could have had a qualm was with the replacement Darcy changing his mind. You wouldn't blame him if he did. All he has to do is realize that he's on his way to a traumatic public death, possibly following torture, and decide that the family who once rejected him aren't worth that. It's not the Grand Canyon of logical leaps. But it's not a problem. And why? Because Danielle's replacement Darcy is a man without a tongue. His hands will be cuffed, so he won't be writing it down either.

We're on our way to pick him up from his overnight digs when this fact finally gets the better of me.

"So was he tongueless when you fucked him or-?"

"No. He's tongueless because he fucked me. I ran a job on this stately home up north. Old bat, more money than taste. She puts up a reward and he tries to cash me in."

"Who else was on this job, then?"

"Nobody. Just me. I found it, I ran it. He did a bit of entry work for me."

"…Wait, _you_ cut his tongue out?"

"Yep. With scissors." This doesn't even seem to faze her. This doesn't seem odd to her. Very hard to keep my eyes on the road when I want to stare at her. She feels my eyes in the side of her head and looks round. Looking as royal and entitled as the big cats at the zoo. "Listen. Listen to me, because this is something of which you have no concept. The nature of my work requires me to _depend_ on people. It's where you like and trust your accomplices and respect their skills, and deal with them personally. A thief who accepts a grass is weak, and will soon be out of business, broke, or dead."

"Don't be so sarcastic; I understand all that."

"Then what's your problem?"

It's the opposite of the previous problem. Now I can't look at her. I'm thinking about yesterday, when we went to speak to this guy. She was so sure he'd do it, right from the first. Not a doubt in her mind. And she was right. He did it. He looked grateful. And yes, if he loves his family, he's getting a good swap out of this. But she cut his tongue out and he hugged her. I know I'm not an expert, she'd probably point that out to me, but that doesn't make any sense.

"Jim? Spit it out, before you _choke_…"

"He's still in love with you."

"Fucking tough. He never should have tried to sell me, should he…"

"That's not what I mean. It's just… _how_? Is it voodoo dolls, Danielle? Should I be locking up my hairbrush?"

"Only 'cause I'll sniff it."

"Oh, fuck off."

"How did Medusa or Circe or Medea do it? Nature of the beast, Jim."

"…That's some great company you're keeping there."

"Oh, fuck off…"

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

"Mycroft, wait, I'm coming with you."

"Somehow I don't think so."

"Doesn't matter what you think." He's already in the car. That assistant glances warily up from her phone, just long enough to decide I'm not a threat. Me, I'm tugging and tugging on the door handle before I realize he's locked it. "Very mature, Mycroft."

"This isn't a school outing-"

"Fully aware of that. Think about it. If I don't go with you, I'll have to follow you, to do that, I'll have to get a cab. Then you'll have the driver to deal with and it's just another pile of paperwork on your desk, another signature to add to the Secrets Act. It's not worth the hassle is it? I told you before, I'm a spectator now, I just want to see the ending. I'll be good. I'll stand at the back and be very qui-"

The lock snaps open again. It's not that I've convinced him. He just wants me to stop talking, and knows that won't happen.

"Why?" he says, as I'm settling down, as I'm gathering my coat clear of the door. "You still won't answer that one."

Because he thinks he's going to pop off to whatever rendezvous, retrieve the drawings and then see Mies killed right in front of him by a highly-skilled marksman of his own choosing. And I'm going to watch him get his self-assured little plan shoved up his nose. No idea yet how they're going to pull it off either, which just makes it all the more exciting.

They will, though. And if they don't, Mycroft will watch Mies fall knowing that I'm doing exactly the same thing.

Mycroft's driver pulls away, and another, less noticeable car falls behind in convoy. Gentleman at the wheel, one in the passenger seat. The latter is slouched, chewing gum. Weather beaten. Long, stationary periods outside. This is the sniper.

I feel sorry for him. I don't know where he fits in to the Mies-Darcy counterplan, but I feel sorry for him anyway. I'll probably be justified in the end.

About ten minutes pass. It's getting to that time of the day and I'm adding the numbers from the postcode portions of the street signs, four or five at a time and I keep coming back to the same number. Fifty-seven. The sentimentally-minded among you will be looking for some meaning there, some superstitious significance. Searching for evidence of the high and strange and invisible and missing entirely the concrete fact in front of your nose.

They're driving in circles.

"Mycroft, I think your driver had a pint too many last night…"

"Not quite."

"Then he's been bought. Using your tinted windows to buy Mies time."

"Oh, do guess again, Sherlock. Third time's the charm, don't they say?"

"...What are you waiting for, Mycroft?"

"Better. Think before you speak next time. This 'three guesses' business is awfully… _unprofessional_."

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

I drop Danielle off around the corner from her place. Then take a quick turn around the corner, confirm to myself that the spooks are still there waiting and loop back to let her know. See, she's a careful girl.

If you meet her, don't bring that up. Don't make note of that aspect. Because she _will_ tell you the story about the crabs and the Kyoto job, no matter how much you protest.

In this case, it's nothing quite so crass. She's got a back door, that's all. An alternate entrance nobody knows about. That's how we've been getting her in and out for the last twenty-four hours while the spies just think she's been holed up recuperating. She can get in through the twenty-four hour minimart around the corner and up into the attics over the mews. There's a trapdoor that puts her down right on her own bed. Wonderful fun after a job, she says. Especially a cash job, when she'll frequently throw the money down ahead of her so she can land in a heap of notes.

"So you're essentially just a large, disturbed child, then, dear?"

"And loving it."

Anyway, everything's in motion now. This time when she lets herself in, she'll promptly let herself back out again. Out the front door, this time. She'll call Mycroft Holmes and give him a carefully rehearsed message telling him his place in the plan. And telling the truth at every turn, too. I ran the lines with her; sleeping only left her more exhausted, so she's in no position to ad lib. This is my job now, my little poem, and Danielle is not to take liberties with it.

"In a minute," she is to say, "I'm going to hang up and text you the location from which you may pick up Jon Darcy. You reach him, satisfy yourself that you've got the right man and call me back to confirm. I'll then provide a picture of myself, the drawings and today's paper in front of a public clock, sent from this number. By the time you get there I'll be gone, and you'll find the drawings in the possession of a man in a red and grey anorak."

Okay, so the last bit's a lie, but they're never going to get that far.

They're going to say they accept her terms, but as Danielle leaves her building, she'll be tailed.

Because Holmes is dealing with her, see? He's the contact, he's the one she'll be expecting to work with. MI5. Holmes isn't going _near_ Darcy, and he's not going to be looking for some mysterious anoraked man because he doesn't intend to let her get as far as a public clock.

Not ten minutes pass in the car when she texts to say it's all a go

I send back, "Talk Slow."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

It's not even Mycroft, but the assistant, who gets the all-important message. She shows it to the driver and suddenly he roars away, out of his lazy, drifting circle and halfway across the centre of town. The address is a little street in Camden Town. Too narrow for the big town car, but it doesn't seem to be a problem. The driver pulls up at the end, and there are already four motorbikes abandoned outside an open door. Neighbours and shopkeepers coming out to watch. Mycroft actually sits forward, looking around me, watching breathless.

They followed her.

Of course. Far too simple for the British Government to just follow an arrangement.

"Well, I thought Mies sounded very organized, for what it's worth. I thought it was smart. Presuming, that is, you intend to honour what you offered her. You do, don't you?"

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock."

He's actually nervous. I'm committing it to memory. The way he hooks over, the way he clasps his hands. I'm keeping this to amuse me in low moments. Watching him so closely I don't see the man in leathers come out that door and walk up to the car. Mycroft does. _Orders_ me to roll down the window.

The former biker sighs, looks like a messenger expecting to be shot. "She wants to speak to you, sir." Mycroft nods to him and he starts to get out. "And she says to…" He falters, looks away with a slight flush creeping up from his jaw.

"Well? Spit it out, won't you, man?"

Biting each word like a bullet, with incredible dignity. "She says to bring your sexy brother, sir."

I bite back a smile as I open my door, "Aren't you glad you brought me along?"

"_Shut up_, Sherlock."

"You would have had to go back and get me."


	56. Glory:Honour

_Sherlock_

That door opens onto a stairwell. At the top of the stairwell, there would appear to be only one small room. The walls aren't painted but hung with heavy tapestry and rich silk. Dense carpet, the window shaded and, dominating the room, an enormous round bed made up in red and purple like a human heart. A whore's room. Just a little nook for assignations and, for a moment, maybe… but no. The perfume's all wrong. It's musky and green. Mies wears jasmine oil in rose water. There is just a trace of Mies in the air; not her place.

"Do you like it?" Heard before she's seen. Seated near the curtains in a chair all gilt and velvet. "Borrowed it from a friend. On the off-chance things go unprecedentedly well and we all end up friends and-"

"Please," Mycroft manages. Eyes shut, pretending he's tired of her already. "Don't finish that."

Slowly, painfully, she cranes around in the chair. Her eyes roll quickly over me. "Sorry, gorgeous. Big bad thief not good enough for little brother."

Too fast, before she can even look back from me, Mycroft is across the room, right by her chair. Too fast, does something I don't think any of the three of us could have been expecting. Strikes her – hard, backhand. Across the side of her face that's only just starting to close over. It turns her head, and she does cry out, but in the very same second her leg snaps out and cripples Mycroft at the shin. He staggers, yes, but currently he's in better shape than her. He doesn't fall. He grabs the curtain. At first, it's to steady himself. Then, while she's readying to strike another blow, he pulls it back and points across the street.

Another window. A dark silhouette, and the merest glint of the round muzzle of a high powered rifle.

Everything stops on a breath and stays until the exhale.

Mies stares at the marksman. Mycroft, thinking he's got the advantage, "The drawings, Miss Mies."

"I knew I was being followed. Soon as I left the flat. I get followed on a regular basis, Mr Holmes, not always professionally. I can take care of myself."

"We've reached a point now where you can only make the inevitable more difficult for yourself."

"Do you really think so? At any rate, I do so like to fight it out. Have a seat." Finally looking away from the sniper, forcing an elegant, winning smile for him, "If it's all so predetermined as you say, what have you got to lose?"

He doesn't sit. He wouldn't anyway. But he stands at ease, leaning on his umbrella. Mies doesn't move from her chair. Maybe the sniper, maybe exhaustion. Maybe she knows the real effect of it. There is a certain expression, a way of straightening the back. It's how little girls play at being queens. Few grown women can manage it, not least in gold-edged wing chairs, but she does. At the weakest, the most vulnerable, she looks untouchable.

If you're going to go out, you might as well go from the top.

King of the neat and well-ordered asks again where the Gilès are stashed.

Queen of the tawdry and chaotic tells him, outright, with an honest nod, that he just needs to look around the room. Mycroft's eyes dart towards the window. "No, don't do that. You'll get it if you think about it. I could tell you, but you'll enjoy it more if you do it yourself."

And me, the good spectator, standing quiet at the back, thinking, _Déjà vu…_

Mycroft still glancing across, thinking about calling his armies down. Mies' hands claw on the arms of her chair, "No!"

"Give me a decent reason and perhaps-"

"Well, in case you can't find them, of course."

"A _decent_ reason, Miss Mies."

"Because your people haven't got Jon Darcy yet, have they?"

Mycroft considers the threat, contemplates it seriously. Then shakes his head. "There's no possible way you could warn him now."

"That's an odd statement. It could either mean that you're being very trusting of me, which is ill-advised at best, or that you're underestimating me, which is very, very stupid."

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

I have no Danielle and only a false Darcy.

Well, no. The documents are all straightened out. He's a proper Darcy. He's just not the nice, strong, loyal Darcy with the gun who could be useful in a situation like this.

Now, because I'm nice, and because I highly doubt any of you lot are ever going to end up in a comparable position, I'm going to outline some of the very basic rules of hostage hand-off.

Firstly, set up your meet somewhere public. That way folk will find it very hard to turn on you or pull a gun or any of those horrible game-changers. The presence of Joe Bloggs and his missus ensures that everything goes down in a calm and reasonable fashion. People won't even be raising their voices. But in this case, that hasn't happened, because MI6 insisted on being able to move Darcy right away. The only spectators are a pair of Jerseys in the next field, the one they're probably going to frogmarch him right over to the helicopter they've got waiting, and the helicopter to some private airstrip elsewhere, and from there to the dusty heat of Africa.

When I pull up along the road, they're already waiting.

Danielle's stump-tongued ex-lover is sitting in the back, just staring. All hollow-eyed and already gone. I ask him if he's ready and he just nods. I tell him I'm sorry and that I'll make sure all that stuff she promised happens for him and he just nods.

If there was ever a twinge? Ever? That was it.

Then it occurred to me that I wasn't actually the one that put him up to it and the twinge wasn't mine to have, and the twinge went away. Me, I was just the courier.

So I got out and got the door for him and he followed me step for step to meet the spook smoking in the verge.

Rule number two, don't talk to the other guy. For one, any talk is liable to lead to arguments to lead to raised voices to lead to firearms. And I don't have a firearm. This was an oversight. I still have the one Darcy nicked off Yankee Fabio, but I would have had to go back to the safe house for that. But to hell with it. I've told you before, haven't I, that I'm an optimist. This is me being optimistic.

Rule number two goes out the window.

"Look, his closest mate's just fucked him left-to-centre and he knows what he's going to. You crowd don't need to be bastards in between, right?"

That's not very me. It's the twinge talking.

Anyway, MI6 are a lot better about sticking to rule two than I am. He puts out his cigarette, steps off the fence.

The new Darcy is already turned towards the helicopter. It's far enough away to be small. To look like a toy. He's shuffling his feet and ducking his head, but he's looking at it.

Rule number three, never show your hand. Doesn't do to look emotionally invested in any side of the project. Not in them, not in the hostage, not in the person you're protecting. It just gives a false idea of where you stand and it loads the opposition with ammunition. It puts you in a rough fucking position, that's all it is.

The smoking gent is checking Darcy against a folded print out from his pocket. Dead casual, like. Says me, "Satisfied?" He nods. "Good. Call Holmes and tell him so." And I maybe say that a bit quickly, but I'm wondering how slow Danielle can talk, how long Holmes will have been there, how long she can hold him off. It's all over Smokey's face, he's thinking I'm an eejit, an amateur. Which is fine. Let him think it. It's nothing to me, not really.

I just need to hear him confirm with the boss that he's got Jon Darcy, that they're taking custody of him now and he'll be out of the country within the hour. And I know Holmes is with Danielle when he takes that call. I know when he hangs up she'll have just a little bit more work to do. And after that?

After that they're out of the cage.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

"Didn't I tell you I'd deliver?" she smiles when Mycroft hangs up. "I keep my promises."

"Oh?" he smiles back, "And poor Jon Darcy?"

"I never promised him a thing."

"It's a pity you're on the wrong side of the law."

"Why? Because if I could lie, steal and betray legitimately I could have your job?"

He chews that one down like a wasp. Finally he raises his hand, signalling the man in the opposite window. The gilded wings of Danielle's chair aren't enough to keep her out of sight and her oblique angle isn't enough to save her. They didn't do it. She's going to die. He's going to have her killed. They didn't pull it off and I'm about to watch a woman be shot in the head right in front of me. Nothing I can do.

I shouldn't have time to think about all this, should I?

Why isn't she dead?

Mycroft signals again. Still no shot.

Mies sits up, edging forward. She cranes, making a mockery of looking out across the street again, peering between the marksman and Mycroft, back and forth and back again. "Oh. Oh, I do apologize, Mr Holmes. Did you think that fella over there was yours?" Laughing, blithe as if they got each other's orders in a restaurant. "No, no, no, that's _my_ guardian angel."

He seethes at her. Trembles, but that could be anger or fear. She starts to raise her hand, just very subtly, just lifting her fingers from the arm of the chair, but no more than that. Not enough to signal.

"To think", she continues, "All you had to do was honour the bargain. All you had to do was be a gentleman. And before you even say it, it should make no difference whatever that I am not a lady. Now, Mr Holmes, like I say, I keep my promises. So you just stand there, and when I get far enough away to feel safe, I will call off my teeth and claws and text you the location of the drawings. Until then I wouldn't make any sudden movements and I wouldn't use your phone again."

He doesn't speak. Gives no sign at all that he even heard her. But he doesn't move either.

Mies' first attempt to stand is a failure. On the second, I take her gently by the elbow and help. Limping past, her hand trails across me. "You know, I meant what I said about you, gorgeous."

But that's all that gets to pass between us. She's in too much of a hurry and I'm painfully aware of Mycroft's glare.

Well… maybe it's not _painful_, per se…

I sit down on the edge of the vacant chair. "So-" I begin, on the in-breath

"Don't," he says.

There's nothing to say on the exhale.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

False Darcy delivered, I get this message which just says 'Clear. You?'

And I send back, 'Clear,' fix the speakerphone and ring the real Darcy's mobile.

There's no 'hello', no greeting. "Jim, I've been looking at this lanky blonder fucker for half-an-hour, right?"

"_Right_…"

"And I mean, just looking. Can't hear anything, don't know what's going on over there, right?"

"_Yes_…"

"Can I please just shoot him anyway?"

Tempting, very tempting. Certainly he's caused a lot of trouble. But I couldn't find out that much about him. Seems to be just following directives and orders, probably a low-level guy, doesn't make the radars much. There's shame in killing off a guy like that. Anyway, it doesn't get us anywhere, not really. If he was really, genuinely powerful, if his death might save us all some bother in the long run then yeah, maybe, but as it stands?

"Dani says she's out of the way. Get your face hid and get far, far away."

"Well, what about the brother, person-of-interest? Give him a bit of trauma."

"Jesus Christ, Darcy…"

"Sorry. You're right. Don't know what's come over me, but he just makes me angry to look at. I can't explain it. You'd know it if you were looking at him."

"No… Wait. Hold on, that might actually be an idea…"

"What? You mean there could be a reason they sent a walking red rag to-"

"No." No. No more of that. No more conspiracy and twisty-turny nonsense, I've had enough of it. That's over now, that's done. I'm not having it. I want to straighten everything out, make it nice and easy. I want to take complexity out of the equation and hence, "No, I meant about the other fella…"

"Before you go any farther, I don't know what she meant by it, but Dani said to tell you she never fucked him."

"What?"

"Never got that far."

"…Whatever you do don't get spotted, Darcy, just get out."

"You're no fun, mate. You're going to be one of those horrible, humourless fucking bosses."

"Well, I'm sorry about that."

"You're not even. You know, come Christmas I'm going to expect a free trigger on _somebody_."

"What you do with your spare time is nobody's business but your own, but right now might I suggest that you get the fuck away?"

He sighs, he mutters, but there's a clatter as he starts to take his rifle apart and he hangs up.

Just one more reason to only keep one of them; they're just too much bloody work.


	57. Bloke:Bird

_Jim_

Nothing else happens. Zip, zero, nada, not a sausage. There's no suspicious dark car behind me the whole way back to town. There's nobody waiting in the street beneath the flat. There's no eerie phone call. There's no ticking from beneath my seat. Nothing. Sweet fuck all. Things are back to normal, I think. That nice, quiet way about things where nothing happens unless I make it happen.

Made this happen, didn't I? Fecking right I did. I did all of this. Darcy helped, Mies helped, but without me they'd both have been shot on the Calais ferry first thing this morning. And somebody would have said the word 'terrorist' and no more questions would have been asked. Who, me? Oh, I'm nobody, just the hero of the fucking hour.

While we're inverting absolutely all expectations, I'm thinking the three of us should at least have dinner somewhere before we all go our separate ways. Somewhere quiet and private so no one can stare at all the collective wounds and bruises. It's the opposite of a condemned man's last meal, which ought to please the former Darcy, the opposite of a Last Supper, which ought to please Danielle when she gets to stick it to Da Vinci, and me, I just like turning things on their heads.

Getting out of the car, I have to stop and lean back in. Manila envelope in the glove box. Very important, nearly forgot it.

There's no one waiting as I climb the stairs, no one at the top of them, nobody waiting around the corner by the roof access to sneak up on me. Dani taught me my lesson about that one good and proper. I'll be checking that from now on.

Darcy's here already. Waiting. Well, not Darcy anymore. I'll have to get used to that… _He'll_ have to get used to it. When I walk in, he's ready to defend himself, but he's not into it. All the bloodlust would seem to have gone off him, thankfully. He relaxes pretty quick.

"Afternoon. How's you?"

"Funny," he says, "But I'm actually alright."

"Oh. Well, that's good. That's an improvement."

"You're telling me. There's one thing, though. One tiny little detail."

Between the door and the coffee pot, I freeze for an ugly, ugly second. But no. Couldn't be. Must be a joke. Cautiously, "Fire away, sir."

"I don't know who I am anymore." Ah. Well, that's alright then.

"Have you spoken to your priest, son?"

He laughs. I think it's relief more than anything, because it wasn't that funny and he goes on a while. While the water's boiling I bring him the envelope. "Jonathon Darcy, meet Sebastian Moran."

"_Moran_?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with that? Standard naming process, middle name and mother's maiden name. Why are you questioning Moran? Question _Sebastian_ if you're questioning anything…"

"…Bit defensive there, mate."

"Nothing wrong with Moran. Good, strong name. Irish name."

"Ah."

But he's only taking the piss. He's been covering up but he goes quiet as he starts going through the contents of the envelope. "Birth certificate, driver's licence, qualifications, military service record, passport. Everything you'll ever need. And it's all supported, it all goes right back. Decent credit rating and all, this Moran gent has…" I've done this before. Well, I've arranged it all. Somebody else has collated everything and delivered it and the end user never got any closer to me than any other stranger. This is a bit different to that. This is Darcy, _Moran_ (I'm never going to be able to manage that…) sitting in front of me, right there, being all grateful and lost for words. I have to leave him there, have to step off.

When he's regained his usual composure he follows me into the kitchen. "You know you've saved my life, don't you?"

"No, J… _Seb_. I hadn't noticed."

"So long as you know, anyway. Stick with Seb, by the way, that sounds alright."

"Do you feel like a Seb, Seb?"

"I do a bit, yeah."

"You look like a Seb and all, y'know."

"You're taking the mick now…"

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm glad. Gives me free reign to ask why your whole flat smells like Dani's perfume."

That's it. I'm having the place fumigated. The worst of it is, I think I'm actually getting _used_ to the stench. Honestly, between her and Darcy, my home's not my own anymore. _Moran_, fuck's sake, I meant Moran.

"Speaking of, where _is_ the princess? Has she been in touch? She should be here by now. Going to have to get her used to your new name and all. Next couple of days should be a _barrel_ of fecking laughs…"

I've gone on a bit there. In the process I've not noticed that Dar… himself has gone all quiet. And when I'm quite finished he shakes his head. Takes an apple from the bowl and studies it before he bites into it. "She's been and gone, Jim."

"What?"

"Said she'd still feel safer if she was out of England. Which is fair enough. You wouldn't hold that against her. Said she was going to Switzerland to see her banker and then out to this little place she has outside Melbourne. Said she'd have a room ready."

"What? A room for… Oh, right."

"Yeah. Says me to Dani, I'm staying, love. And not just for a couple of weeks until I'm safer to travel."

I can see it in my head, almost hear her voice, how it all went. It's alright. Pouring the coffee I nod. "So she laid into you and flounced out in a huff. Tenner says she's back within the hour."

"She never did, though; she just, sort of… took it. Kissed goodbye and everything, told me to stay in touch."

Shite. Then she's proper gone. But… But _dinner_. Da Vinci. Darcy-Moran confusion. She never said goodbye to _me_, y'know. Fuck that, she's yet to say _thanks_. Well, no, she said it a lot, but that was _before_ we actually pulled it off. If I didn't think she'd take it far too literally I'd get on the phone and demand she come back and deliver the proper back-patting. And she's too damaged to fly. And if she leaves England there are a million more ways they can make her disappear, with nobody looking out for her. How would J… _Seb_ and I even know if she just up and vanished?

…_Shite_.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

Mycroft's tapping his foot. I spark up a cigarette and he tells me to put it out. When I won't, he wants to take it from me. But then again, she did say no sudden movements. It's too much fun watching him struggle with that. See, when she left, he had his back to the window. He's been glancing back, but never enough to properly see.

On the exhale, making sure he gets a pungent, heavy mouthful, "Maybe she wants you to stand there 'til she lands in Mexico."

"We'd see how her marksman felt about that…"

"I'm sure he's very happy." Nodding out the window, "She's taking him with her." Mycroft whips round to see the empty window. "He's about ten minutes clear." Throws me such a look I'm shocked I don't instantly turn to stone. He has urgent phone calls to make. Find out what happened to his sharpshooter, who was on the roof, how did Mies exit past them all, where is she now, well, _find_ her. I shouldn't laugh. I really shouldn't. Mycroft's already very aggravated. But it is the very state of irritation that I should be respecting which is swift becoming _irresistibly_ funny.

"Mycroft-"

"Not _now_, Sherlock."

"Mycroft," and here I stand, take him by the shoulders and place him down in that tacky, tacky throne. "It's over."

He tries to stand, pressing up, "It most certainly is not!"

I push harder and he sits again. "Yes it is. They'll never catch that woman now. More to the point, they don't need to." And as if it had a copy of my script, his mobile chooses just that moment to bleep. A message. "It's like she said. She's really much more honourable than you've been. That's the location of the drawings."

"Oh, is it now?" Mycroft snarls. Holds it up so I can see. No text, just a picture. A small brown bird, white edges to its feathers, black markings. _Alauda Arvensis_

"This means something," I say aloud.

Mycroft agrees. "Yes. That she's _flown_…"

But he's wrong, you know. This is what she was trying to tell him. Me, I was too busy with a few awful flashbacks to make sense of it, but she said it herself. All he had to do was look around the room. If he'd looked, he would have seen the effect the words had on me. Would have known I had something to do with it. And all those echoes, the same game I played with her, this was what she was trying to say.

"No. It means that I know where the drawings are hidden." Mycroft stops. Everything stops. The agents who had been waiting outside are stopped at the door when he gets up and shuts it on them. "Oh, calm down. I didn't know a thing until just now."

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

"No, Mother. Shan't." He's still not convinced. I nod at the phone hanging limp in his hand. "It's a… a private joke."

"Then tell me. And tell me very quickly."

…No, hold on. These are very important. And he's _very_ riled up. No, I'm not giving this up just yet. Everybody else is milking these bloody drawings for all they're worth. Why shouldn't I get something out of it?

"D.S. Lestrade is to be reinstated. It was all a mistake, he never did a thing. No investigation, and he gets a full apology."

Mycroft grimaces, "Fine."

"Lestrade has no idea what the drawings really mean. He is to be the one who returns them to the National Gallery." Irritable, insistent nodding.

"And there's a coroner, well, a trainee. Molly Hooper. She's stuck in a second-rate morgue in an awful hospital and the gentleman who should be training her is not only lazy but corrupt. She is to be placed somewhere much more conducive to her learning process."

"What? Why would you-"

"These are the terms, Mycroft, take it or leave it."

"Fine…"

"And I can't imagine it's going to impact much on-"

"_I said alright, Sherlock_."

He's gone all red. A moment more, there'll be steam coming out of his ears. This is wonderful. I'm not even itching anymore. To hell with heroin, _this _is the hit. "And finally, _you_, brother dear, are to honour your original conditions. Danielle Mies is to be left alone."

He hates that one. He hates me for saying it. He hates the implicit admission that if he could have just acted like a worthwhile human being rather than taking the sledgehammer approach he did, none of this would have been necessary. And if he still had any fight left in him, if he had anything to barter with, he might have another go at implying something sordid about my involvement with both Mies and Darcy, Lady and Tiger. Some crude little crack about her answering my phone that time. But Mycroft, for once in his life, has _nothing_.

This. This is enough. All is forgiven, Danielle, in light of this great gift.

"Done. Now really, Sherlock, there isn't more than three lives' worth of leverage in this. I'd advise you to stop now."

"I have no more to ask."

"Then for God's sake-"

"My place. She hid them at my place. You shouldn't have held onto me last night. I could have been there, could have caught her-"

He's not listening. He's pulling me out the door after him. Ordering his men to search the room, which is just an exercise in futility. It's not hers. There'll be no clues there. Mycroft shoves me at the car as he rounds to the far side. Never seen him quite so enraged. He's not funny anymore. I explain nothing along the way. He'll know when we get there. I don't think he's talking to me, anyway.

The bird in the picture is a lark.

The piece of music I used to render Mies unconscious was The Lark's Ascent. Sheet music on the bookshelves, Gilè drawings hidden in a book… Not much of a leap, really.

She's brought my book back.


	58. Ice:Rain

_Sherlock_

The book, messy with all the sketch pages sticking out of it, is the only thing on the centre set of bookshelves. Still haven't quite gotten around to tidying the rest back. Straight through the door and Mycroft makes a dash for it. Of course he can't just take it and go, can't leave me to it. No, he has to call up and check how many pages there should be and stay and count how many he has.

Me, I'm going over the tidying I've already done. Top left corner. The sheet music. Looking for that Lark.

Everything's there, by the way. I could tell him that without looking. I _try_, but he's not listening to me. Doesn't trust me. I suppose if that was anything new it might be upsetting. No, he has to check off each of them for himself.

He actually _holds them up to the light_. For one, it proves nothing. They are artist's notes and might well have different watermarks, and oddly enough nobody's put a holographic stamp in the corner of each page. For another, I'd like to see him present to me the forger who can come up with perfect copies in under a week, and with no original to work from. But he's desperate. He's been… I believe the parlance would have, _burned_, on quite a few occasions lately.

Even then, with the full set shuffled neat and held on his lap, he can't just leave me be. He sits down, though nobody asked him to. But Mycroft's had a long, strange morning. I should be understanding of him. I should be calming and selfless, like a good brother should. I take a seat opposite him.

"I wish you wouldn't insist," he begins, "On treating me as the enemy."

In order to allay his agitations, I should at least pretend to ignore him. I open and pretend to peruse the music. That's not what I'm reading, though. I'm reading the single leaf of paper tucked inside, the one that begins, _Wanted to write this between the lines (to be clever) but the page was making me dizzy_.

Mycroft continues, "I know I brought you into this in the beginning. If there's one thing I'd never dare doubt it's your… intellectual _gifts_. In a way, it was the intelligence _you_ brought in that made me wary. I tried, Sherlock, to guide you away, of course I did. Even considered simply _telling_ you to back off but… The more I learned about Darcy and Mies personally, I was worried for you."

Even as he leads up to it, Mies is predicting the future; _They're going to say I only ever used you. But you've already thought about that and already forgotten it. Don't believe it just because you hear it. And, in my defence, __you__ picked__ me__ up, remember? I mean, yeah, I did it to get your brother (best kept secret, by the way). But __not just for that._

There's more there, but she's scratched it out. If she doesn't want it read, I won't pry.

"It seems to be rather the modus operandi. They knew it was suicide to approach me directly, so they went looking for a… a… well…"

"The term you're trying to sweeten is 'weak link'."

"Quite. And you must believe me, Sherlock, when I tell you that I'm sorry my position could have caused you any pain."

"…There's _almost_ a crude joke to be made there. You're not very eloquent today, Mycroft. Whatever's the matter?" He attacks with an expression of unbearable, simpering sympathy. The sort you see peering down into the cages of abandoned dogs about to be put down. All I have to do is tell him about when I first met Mies. He'll know from that moment that the decision to undertake any later action was entirely my own and done entirely for my own reasons. I wonder if that would be worse for him, and also if it would technically constitute treason. Of course, it's much better to leave him under the false assumption, but God, is it tempting. He might even storm out and let me get around to medicating before the shaking gets any worse.

Mies' letter swims, shuddering, and I prop my wrists on the arms of the chair to steady it. _Hope you were as smart about the art as you've been since I've known you, hope you got something out of it. It's the closest I can get to a proper apology. And if you didn't then it's your own daft fault and you've clearly learned nothing hanging around with the criminal classes and frankly you deserve your disappointments._

Mycroft wants to know what I'm laughing it. Probably taking it for the desperate cover-up of some deep, inner sting. I inform him, as clearly and concisely as I possibly can, "I am in no immediate physical danger from myself. Would you like me to sign a statement to that effect?" That's why he's still here, of course. _Last_ thing he needs today is to have to chase after me on an Old Testament bender of self-destruction. Maybe this time yesterday, maybe late last night, but no, not right now. Nice, quiet buzz is what I want right now. Nice, long, soporific afternoon. I want _nothing_, gorgeous, perfect, empty nothing. Which can be an awful lot to ask but today, I feel like I can manage it. For all of this to happen, I just need Mycroft to leave. I point over at the drawings he's clinging so very tightly to. "Those are going to Lestrade, aren't they?"

"As soon as they're verified."

"_You're_ going to be verified, Mycroft, on all points."

"Not quite all." I'm trying to decipher what this means at the same time as being overjoyed that he's actually standing up. He makes his way to the door, looking disdainfully down at the sheets heaped by the telephone. The meaning crystallizes; there'll be no checking up on whether or not he's leaving Mies alone. Apparently I must be very cut up about this, because he won't even turn back. He just tips his head towards his shoulder, hand on the door, and says, "Please don't think you'll hear from her again."

It's not a threat.

Actually, it's the one point on which he and Mies agree.

_I feel like I owe it to you to say here and now for certain that I won't be back. Changing number, flat, phone, hair, so on, so forth. Obviously I don't need to explain it. Just felt like I should say. Whatever else happened, you saved me from burning and helped me sleep. None of it's as stupid as it looks on paper_.

There's no sign-off, no lie like 'faithfully' or 'yours'. No full signature either. The whole thing has an air of haste about it. Somebody waiting downstairs with a car, probably. Probably already impatient; all she had to do was leave the book, after all. But that's probably not why she's only signed 'Dani'.

Anyway, there's more important business now that Mycroft's gone. I'm nearly at the end of my little cache, but there's enough for today. Enough for that warm, heavy feeling I'm after, certainly. I close the letter back in with the music and leave it on the arm of the chair while I arrange it, and I keep it under my hand as I relax into it. Maybe that's what plants the idea in my head. A flash of utter brilliance in aid of a single stupid thing. The perfect combination; who wants to be brilliant about the reality of things?

I slide my phone out from beneath me and find Lestrade's number.

"Hello?"

"So! Hear you got your job back?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Oh… Um… Well, surprise. Yes, you're totally safe and forgiven. Your promotion should be with you before the day is out. And if it's not, call me back, because that's not what he and I agreed on…"

Sighing, irritated, "Why don't you call me back when you're not hallucinating?"

"Oh, sod off. I'm absolutely clear-minded, it's just that I have privileged information. It'll all come to you. Ask me to tell you about it someday when I'm not hallucinating, hm? Anyway, just to let you know, the case as you know it is about to vanish. Charlotte Stendhal and the hotel shooting, Covent Garden, the American suicide and… oh, something else, all of it, right? All of it is about to vanish, which means they'll have to vanish all the evidence as well. So, since I was so smart and fixed your job and everything, since I've been nice to you, I need you to do one more thing for me before it all vanishes."

He laughs, he swears, he threatens to hang up again. But he'll do it. Give me five minutes, he'll do what I'm asking.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

All the light and clarity of this morning has gone under clouds. Literally and metaphorically. Literally it's _pissing_ down, gone so dark the streetlights are glowing, trying to decide whether or not to come on. It's not entirely a bad thing, you know. People grumble, but they gather to do it. They huddle in doorways and under umbrellas to complain together. Bad things bring people together.

Bad things also have a tendency to keep the streets clear, which works for me.

Metaphorically, I think… _Moran_ needed a bit of space. Say what you want, all that 'what's in a name' shite, he's not the same fella he was when he got up this morning. That _has_ to fuck with your head. Don't get me wrong, I've assumed identities in the past, great numbers of them, but you pick that. And it's temporary. That's just a lie. This is very different and very real for him. It has to be or it won't work and he'll be fucked again. Jon Darcy is fucked, Seb Moran is free and clear. Simple as.

But I'm not such a callous bastard I can't understand he maybe needs a second. If he's smart he'll be practicing his introductions. That's where he's likely to trip himself up. I'll have a word later, make sure he does that.

And the other one, I'm told, has taken off never to cast her shadow over London again.

Voluptuous. '_Voluptuous_ shadow', I should have said. Not because I want to, not because I think of it as true or anything. Because if she was here she would expect flattering adjectives. If she was here I wouldn't give her the satisfaction, but because she's not here I feel like I should.

Do you see what I mean now about all the clarity going far, far away?

Guess where I am, by the way. I'll give you a hint; everything's fecking wet. It all seemed like a much better idea before I left the flat. Told Darcy I had somewhere to be, so I had to go somewhere, didn't I? So I've ended up back down near his former digs. The cops have gone away from the hotel, which is only to be expected. Probably the official line is that that never happened. All the stoned whores fell into one great mass hallucination which they were somehow able to magically project onto the CCTV, but they've lost that tape anyway, so what's the odds?

Anyway, I was down this direction anyway, and the rain is keeping everything relatively quiet. Couldn't go back to the flat just yet. Might as well have something to do, kill the time, don't you think? And it occurred to me, there's a cat about here who's probably shivering, who knows me and who has, so far as a thoughtless feline might, helped me out.

There will be cynics amongst you who might attempt to postulate that my reason for doing this might be somewhat linked to said feline's former owner. To those brave few trying to cop that, I give but one warning to fuck off. Keep it up. Seriously. See what happens. My reasons are my own. Always have been, always will be. Except last night, this morning. Those were other people's reasons, but that was a one-off. My feelings on client-based business have been made perfectly clear, but just in case, here's a statement – customer service is my own personal vision of hell. That's not happening again. I don't even really want to think about it. Actually, do you know what? It wasn't service at all, it was barter-and-trade; I was buying myself Dar-Moran's unending loyalty. And Danielle's eternal gratitude, but for one, I already had that, and for another, I do not want it.

How did I get onto this? Oh yeah, Treadstone. I'll be straight with you and tell you this whole thing is futile. Little scrapper's probably moved on already, and even if he wasn't about, even he's got the sense not to stand around in this weather. And the rain is taking off all the trails, all the scents, and there'll be no way home, and nobody waiting when he gets there.

So the poor sod starts over, does it all again, builds it all up. Claws and climbs to the very highest he can, _again_. But at the end of the day he looks down from the peak and all there is is down and what was the point? Seriously. What's it all for, when you think about it? Prestige, yes, satisfaction, yeah, of course, security, financial reward, all of that, but all of that only goes so far. Personal satisfaction only goes so far. What if you do everything you can for yourself and you're totally happy with the work you've done, but you're not perfectly happy? Where does that fucking leave you, at the end of it?

…I'm talking shite, aren't I? I shouldn't walk. Knowing where I'm physically going apparently knocks my mental capacity for six. Christ Jesus, how did that even start-

"_Treads_!"

Yeah, that was it, thanks…

That voice was streets away. Plaintive great howl, half-drowned through the weather.

"_Fuck's sake, Treadstone_!"

I start to follow the noise. Not hurrying or anything. She keeps shouting, and if anything it's getting closer, so I'm alright. Too strange, this. Because I'd thought she was gone. Danielle was the last thing I thought I'd find wandering around Soho wet and bedraggled.

Well… Y'know, any _other_ day, sure, but… She's supposed to be on her way to Switzerland, isn't she?

And yet, look down the right side street and there she is. Long grey coat plastered black against her, hair trying very hard to stay tied up, but fighting a lot of water weight, crying for her cat.

"…The fuck are you doing?"

She turns towards my voice. Dry eyes, of course. "Live theatre," she shouts back. "Last scene of _Breakfast At Tiffany's_. Do you like it?"

"Stellar job. You just can't get the co-stars these days."

"Well, they warn you about working with animals. And you're hardly George Peppard."

"I do love it when a plan comes together, though."

Nods. Maybe laughs, but I can't really hear it. So she accepts that, then realizes that our meeting here makes no sense. "The fuck are _you_ doing anyway?"

There's an opportunity here to fill a gap with more bullshit. A snap decision needs to be made. More than a moment's hesitation and we're officially having a pause. We really can't afford to have a pause, and if the pause gets itself pregnant, we're done for, dead in the water, finished. So it's the cut, the quick skip-to-the-end, or it's more bullshit. The quick skip is more difficult to formulate and we're getting dangerously near that pause, so I opt for the latter.

"The fake Darcy. You never told me where to find the wife and kids."

She smiles on one side of her face, like she's not sure I really said what I just said. Comes a few steps closer so she won't have to shout so loud. "You're kidding, aren't you? He'll be dead by midday tomorrow. Why would you bother?"

"Heartless bitch."

"And a practical one. None of it's going to work anyway. The wife's an addict no matter what you do, the daughter-" She goes on. Explains it all for me. Why it would be simply illogical of me to even consider upholding my end of that bargain, in clear, convincing points. Which is great, because it gives me a chance to think about the next bit. I'm trying to think it over, trying to formulate it to sound right, be elegant, be casual. She'll see through it, but she'll have to work for it.

She's still stalking when the words 'Fuck it' go through my head and I tell her, "You should stay. You'd be a grade-A cunt to leave. Your best mate doesn't know who he is anymore and you're going to run off to Switzerland. And if you go to Switzerland they'll only kill you in Switzerland. It makes no odds. If you stay in England they can't kill you. All of this Goganye stuff would come out again if they killed you in England."

"…How do you figure that one?"

"Because I'd tell them." That must have been the wrong thing to say; it shuts her up. The only time I can ever get her to stop talking is when the things going on in her head are more interesting. "Clean your mind up, angel. I've got hours and fuck-knows-how-much invested in this now. They're not taking that away from me. I can be pettier than you any day of the week."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can."

"I don't think so, somehow."

"I can, though."

"Not convinced."

"You're fucking me about, aren't you?" She nods. But there is, I _think_, the start of a smile there. I'm making a fecking bollocks of this. These aren't even reasons anymore. And if she asks me 'why' then we're even more fucked than we would have been with the pause. That's how she ends up waiting out the storm in departures and I have to make up something to tell Moran about where I've been. "Stay. Stay tonight, at least. Come and meet Moran. He's lovely, he'll remind you of Darcy, you'll like him."

"We're not a pair, y'know, you don't have to-"

"Of course I don't _have_ to, I know I don't _have_ to."

A second's silence, just this side of a pause. Then she takes those few other steps, draws level with me and passes, saying, "…Well, you'd better call Hugo off. His people are still trying to drag me back to you."

I stand where I am just another heartbeat, then turn and catch up. "Hugo's probably still in the cupboard."

"What cupboard?"

"Oh, didn't tell you about that one yet."

"Tell me now."

"Tell you what?"

"Oh, piss off…"

"Dani?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to hear a funny story about your former employer, Hugo Tudor?"

"…Yes, please."


	59. Gift:Goodbye

_Jim_

Moran deserves a present. I'm bringing him his briefly-lost friend, whether she likes it or not. It's worth the time spent standing in her flat while she changes. That's what I'm telling myself. I've done a ten hour stretch before, I can manage this. Rain water helps; nothing can stick too badly. Anyway, I stand with my back to the door, and this is my little square of floorspace, and that's alright.

She hobbles down the staircase, towelling her hair. Looking me over in my little box and rolling her eyes. Opens her mouth to speak and there's this knocking sound. "You doing impressions now, angel?"

"Can you manage the door handle or would you like me to help?"

"Think about this. Who's it going to be?"

"I know." Nodding me back to the door, she reaches over the back of the sofa and brings her gun out of her handbag. Happy for me to get shot first, of course. That'll be the first thing to go. If she's going to be working for me, I'll be the one behind _her_ from here on out.

…I'm really glad I didn't say that out loud to her.

But to hell with it. There's been too much excitement. There couldn't possibly be anymore come knocking. I turn and answer.

The fella outside was actually sick of waiting. About to give up and walk away. He appears and Danielle's arm swings up behind her, hiding the weapon. He's in a padded neon jacket and motorcycle trousers. A courier. And not a fake one either. "S'this Mies?"

She can't sign. Her better hand's a bit busy. So I tell him yes and put a scribble on the line.

Over my shoulder, "Who's the sender, please?"

"Nah, there's nuffink onnit."

So when he hands me the parcel bag I pass it very quickly to her and she places it very quickly quite far away across the floor. There are only two kinds of packages that come without return addresses. And much as I'm sure she's used to secret admirers, this is not the time to be trusting.

The courier goes. The door gets shut again.

Danielle looks over, points at the parcel and says, "Well?"

"It's addressed to you."

"You signed for it."

"This is your flat."

"You're the bloody bomb expert, remember?"

I raise my hands. I'm not going near it. And the longer we sit here arguing about the more likely we are to die a fiery death, and I'm not dying with her. No way. And I'm not getting blown up, I think I'll go for a little bit more impact than that, thank you. I'd like it to mean something.

A note for future management: Mies dislikes when people talk more than she does. In the face of this little mortality rant she goes for a pair of barbecue tongs and a sharp knife. Opens the bag with surgical precision for the first six inches, then sighs and takes to it with both hands.

"What is it?"

"Certainly not a roll of bloody cordite…" Inside the bag is another bag. This one marked 'Evidence'. And inside _that_ bag is a pair of very nice shoes in red suede. "It's my Nick Kirkwoods…"

"Check inside them."

This side of tears, holding one up like an idol, "Who would blow up these?"

She's having an incident, isn't she? Her little syndrome. Over shoes. Why am I keeping her again? In an attempt to drag her back from the edge, and because somebody has to, I try to ask the necessary questions. Like who could have had access to evidence which a) is police evidence and b) the SIS want disappearing, and why somebody with that kind of access would be in touch and if we can really consider this a gift when it's more than likely – but I'm talking to myself. The lady who cannot walk properly to begin with at the present moment is stepping into four-and-a-half inch heels.

"Don't do that; what are you doing that for? That's stupid."

"Don't care. I need to see somebody else, by the way. You should go on to Jon-"

"-_Seb_."  
>"Seb. I'll catch up."<p>

"No! You're my gift. So help me I will stick a shiny bow on top of your head and-" She stops leaning on the sofa. Rears up. She's taller than me now, and when she tips up her chin I'm stuck looking at her up the length of her nose. "Oh, fuck's sake, whatever you think."

She grins, tossing her head on the way to the door. She opens it for me, sees me out with a hand I have to avoid. "You're going to be one of those nice, easy bosses. Not that much different to Hugo, now that I think about it." That stops me. That turns me, no matter how close she might be, upon my heel. I don't care how tall she is, men have quite literally died for less and – "Except charming and deeply intelligent and not repulsive?"

"Yeah. Keep that up, we'll get along fine."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

She's waiting by the river, standing back behind a pillar where she thinks she can watch me coming. But she sees that I've spotted her and steps out. Picking her way over a puddle. At first, it doesn't seem right, doesn't seem like her. But those shoes are suede, after all.

"Please tell me you got more than this out of those drawings."

"I did. It was more of a gesture, really. Didn't think I'd catch you. Why aren't you on your way to…?"

"Nice try."

"Nobody's listening. I wasn't followed."

Smiling, "Yes, you were." She sees realization register. "Well, I had to make sure I was the only one. And I am. On my way, I mean. I've got a little place outside Seville, since you ask."

"…What are you doing in _London_?"

"London's not so bad. I like London."

"It's a sewer."

"Which is ironic, since there's such wonderful shoe shopping."

"London is a prison." Slowly, painfully I would imagine, Mies starts along the towpath. I fall into step. Dead ahead, obstructing traffic on the bridge, a cab is faithfully waiting. We've got maybe two minutes. "You left me an amusing, ill-constructed letter saying I'd never see you again."

"But I kept thinking of you utterly crushed and I couldn't take it. These things are always easier face to face. In addition, I plead extenuating circumstances."

"Such as?"

Her hand slips quietly into her bag and, a moment later, presses into mine. "I need a clean break, pardon the pun. No souvenirs, and I found that in my jeans." The last of the stash. The one she held back from me. I know to the casual observer this doesn't seem like a good, honourable thing to do, but the casual observer is not an addict. I would recommend looking at it in the most basic possible terms; she is returning stolen property with her head held high.

"No souvenirs? You? Whatever will all your knights say…"

"Why do you think I threw my phone away? That's why I'm going to Seville; don't speak Spanish." I'd laugh, but she's perfectly serious. A long few steps, neither of us says anything. "Look, I… I wanted to know if we were alright? We've been fucking vicious with each other, you and I and… I don't know, it meant something to me. I had time before my flight and I just wanted to… I wanted to see you."

"I'm glad you did. Otherwise my enduring image would have been you in that… _chocolate box_."

"Most gentlemen like the idea of me in Lola's place."

I'll bet generally she's not bartering her life with their brothers in these fantasies. It's alright, though, I was lying anyway. My enduring image of her would probably be of her beaten half to death and asleep. I think it's still better. And it doesn't matter that I was lying because she's lying to me. There are no more flights to anywhere south of Zaragoza this afternoon. Maybe it should annoy me more that there's no truth in any of this. Honestly I don't care. All the big mysteries are solved. Where she's going and how I'll remember her are facts that make no difference, because she won't come back and I will very shortly forget.

"We're alright," I tell her.

"I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

"I'm not sure there are any other circumstances we could have met under."

We've all but reached the cab. Stopped on the far side of the pavement she reaches out for my hand, and I give it to her. "Be good to yourself, Sherlock."

"Be careful, Danielle."

You know, I'm not sure this _is_ easier than the letter. I appreciate the effort, the sentiment that brought her, certainly. And I know there's a kind of pride one can take in the personal approach. But the letter put her point across very well. In addition, it wasn't warm and therefore when the letter left my hand it didn't leave it feeling colder than before. The trick is _perspective_. Stay outside. Look at this objectively. Here was a passing incident in my life, from which I learned lessons about active investigation, the emotional maintenance of one's colleagues, and about who to trust. I turn and start away again before she can close the door. That way those final noises are already behind me.


	60. Sacrifice:Feasting

_Sherlock_

Be good to yourself.

Don't mind if I do. Another hit on the comedown, just like the other day. That sounds like the ticket. A half-alive stupor without even the temporary happiness of a conscious high. Just to be _gone_. Of course, the concomitant risk of two such events so close together is the possibility of increased resistance. I could be worsening my own problems by the very act of relieving them. Then again, Mies returned with, apparently, the express intention of returning my opiates. It would be disrespectful of me to refuse that, surely.

In addition, I want it.

It's sitting on the coffee table. It's all cooked and loaded and ready to go. Don't know why I'm hesitating at all, in fact. There is no simpler, no purer reason, than an addict's desire. All over the world, thousands are fiending, clucking like chickens, shuddering on the edges of withdrawal and here I sit turning physical need into a philosophical quandary. The thinking junkie is worse by far than the average clergyman. I need to do this. Need to take it. For the sake of my own self-worth if nothing else.

I just haven't, yet.

The phone rings once and the machine gets it. Lestrade. In so many words, plus or minus a few of the more colourful ones, he informs me that he's done as I asked (which I already knew), and now would kindly appreciate it if I would refrain from ever appearing in his life ever again.

Why, _no_, Detective Sergeant, don't say _that_. I thought I'd join the Met and be just like you someday…

Oh God, just hit the damned needle and be done with it. I won't be thinking about this. I won't even be thinking about the fact that I'm not thinking about it, I just won't be here.

It used to be so good. I could tell you all about the first time and how it happened and how it felt but I'm bored of that story. That story will hurt because it doesn't feel like that anymore. It used to be so good. Pure, too. The kind of thing you can describe with the word 'good' and feel no need whatever to apologize for using the most common possible term. A _defining_ feeling, from which all other good must necessarily be measured.

I think it did, anyway. That's how I remember it.

And the closest I've ever gotten to it again? Success. Solving the… the _case_, as Lestrade would no doubt have it. Holding the sword over Mycroft's head right at the end and being able to set everything to rights. Almost everything. Almost.

Which reminds me, must check in on Molly Hooper soon. I make a note of that, tear the sheet from the book and leave it on the coffee table where I'll find it again. Because I intend to forget.

This time I get as far as lifting the syringe. If I study it for much longer it will be from my hand.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

Okay, so the grand plans for the Not-Last Supper don't come true. It's not somewhere classy and quiet, it's just the flat. It's not something tiny and impossible and probably not even delicious, but a great white bag from the Indian down the road. It's brought through with ceremony to the dining room. Moran pauses midstep before asking, "Why is that chair bolted to the floor?"

Danielle laughs and opens her mouth to speak. I cut in, "She'll tell you later."

"Maybe if I call you Seb at the end of every sentence I'll get used to it."

"Christ, tell me about it, it's just not happening, is it?"

"Jim, she's known me since we were six. I wouldn't start complaining to her."

"You know, Seb, I like you. You seem much wiser than Jon was…"

I keep telling myself it's just because they're new. We've all had new toys, new hobbies, new passions and we all know how it goes. After a while, it wears off. Give it a couple of weeks and it won't be like this anymore. All the chat and the jokes and the wit, that'll all stop. Tonight, as far as three so disparate and, for lack of a more elegant term, fucked-up might be, we seem to be totally comfortable with each other. But that's just trauma. That's just the effects of the last week or so. That'll wear off too.

See, I just never saw the point in getting stuck into things. People always get so deep into a thing in this early period, and then it just causes them more pain when it ends. Nobody ever takes the long term view. If you could see it like I see it you wouldn't bother getting excited about _Angel_ or cupcake decorating or your brand new mates.

It's just that Seb, from his army days, knows all the jokes about the bishop and the actress. And Dani, from being Dani, knows a lot of funny stories about flaccid bishops and canny actresses. And it really is a very good First Dinner. It's hard not to get drawn in. Seb's telling her off for eating all the poppadums and it's not even boring.

There's a lull and he clears his throat, lifts a can of lager in toast. "Oh, for fuck's sake, we're not starting all this, are we?"

"Well, as my new boss, and the Queen being a hard act to follow-"

Danielle, hand on her heart, "_Land of hope and glo-ory_-"

"You can fuck off and all. All I was going to say was that you would obviously have been the first one drank to, Jim, but since you're not up for it, I'll respect that-"

"No, no. Go ahead. I'm always willing to listen to people talking about me."

Danielle, dancing a little now, "_You're so vain_… _You probably think this song is about you._"

"No, sir, I won't put you through that. It's clear to me that you've got a moral standpoint on this and it would be callous of me to-"

"No, seriously-"

And we could go on like this, you know. I'm not even sure I'd be disgusted if we did.

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

There's a shard of plastic about the length of a bookie's pencil stuck in my palm. The worst part is, when the syringe shattered, I must have caught enough of the liquid inside, and there's the very mildest edge of a buzz creeping in from the wound. Can't even bleed it out.

But yes, most of it is on the floor. So is the actual needle itself and the intact plunger. But the barrel shattered quite handily in my grip without giving too much trouble, barring the aforementioned inconvenience.

In retrospect, what an idiotic thing to do. Now I have to choose between the pain of a lazy withdrawal or the hassle of going to score again. I suppose the first option is just a painful way to delay the latter. It's still a godawful choice. Even worse, having forced it upon myself I've given up my right to complain about it in any way.

I don't know why I decided to crush the barrel. And it _was_ a conscious decision. I admit that. I distinctly remember that. The vein was ready, and I was ready for it. One last push, one little convincer, and I'd be gone. As this push, I selected again Mies' exhortation to 'be good to [my]self'. Played that back in my head again. Heard it over as clear as if she were next to me and my automatic reaction, and big and righteous enough to give the act the necessary strength, was to close my fingers hard around the centre tube. It was done with a momentary but _very_ potent rage.

Now whether or not to go into a potentially dangerous coma state isn't a question anymore. Even if I _do_ go and score, by the time the whole thing comes off I'll be far too close to sober for the dose to elicit the desired reaction.

Because I shattered the needle.

Because of 'Be good to yourself'. Awful, meaningless little phrase anyway; there are very few people in this world who are wilfully _bad_ to themselves. And you'll tell me, I know you will, about anorexics and self-harmers and their ilk, but I implore you one more time, think of it from the right point of view, please. The anorexic gets the body they wanted. The self-harmer gets the release or the attention or whatever it is they desired.

No, the only sorts of people who determinedly take negative actions against themselves are the kind of people who smash needles stuffed full of perfectly good heroin. Those are the people one should be afraid of, so far as I can see.

'Be good to yourself'. A platitude. Thoughtless.

And the needle? A daft overreaction. I'm on the comedown, barely responsible at all. Meaningful? No. All it means is I have to find new gear as well as a dose. That's all. No more than this, and no less either.

* * *

><p><em><span>Jim<span>_

At the end of the third round of toasts, I lean towards Danielle. Pause just long enough to let her wonder ruefully about where this is going, and a second longer so she can start to worry. Then; "To Caravaggio and to Verdi-"

"For the love of God, Jim…"

"-With them all things are possible."

"Is this another part of the story I missed?"

I open my mouth to explain to Moran how excellently smart I was in dealing with her. Danielle leans across me, "He'll tell you later."

"It's a blinder, Seb; don't let me forget. Cheers." Whether she liked the toast or not, Danielle can knock it back. Moran only sips. Actually scrapes his chair back to stand up. _I_, with admirable restraint, bite it back, but Danielle cries out for him to watch my good black ash floor.

"Oh, God," she sighs, "that's his thinking face. Don't go all serious, Jonbastian, not tonight."

"It'll be over in a second, love. Bear with." He steadies himself, gets his thinking face back on. Clearly he's taking care over what way he puts his words together. She can scoff if she likes; I can be appreciative. "I was trying to add up all the times that either of you two has pulled my arse out of the fire, and I lost count. Now, given, that's mostly because Dani's been at it since we were both watching _Rainbow_, but even since it all kicked off just then – vague enough for you, love? – it's insane. So, yeah. Here's to the two of you, alright?"

He sits again. I stare over at him for a second. "Is that it? The way you were talking before I thought I was getting my own toast."

Danielle is trying to ease her chair back, but her legs packed in about eight o'clock. She stays seated and dares us both to be less than gentlemen about it. "To my boys, who came to get me when I was in a sack. You are both of you wonderful fellas, and both of you absolute bastards. I wouldn't have you any other way and I couldn't ask for better." Another drink all round. Then she nods at me. My turn again.

To my new sniper and my new thief. I can't even feel the beginnings of boredom tonight, and I hope I never do. To my new gun hand and my new seduction technique. To the tiger who defended me from the Yanks even when he didn't know whose side I was really on, and the lady who had the pure brass to call me less than evil. May we live in interesting times.

"…To that fecking biryani going cold at the end there. Pass it up, fuck's sake…"

* * *

><p>[AN - End of, guys. Thanks for being here. Listen, if you enjoyed yourself, if you've come this far and finished, please do leave a little comment of some kind. I'd love to know what you thought. Anyway, you've been great (and if you're one of the two people who always hits the latest chapter within about ten minutes, please know you've been making my day for maybe four weeks straight.) All my hearts, Sal Garmonbozia.]


	61. Lion:Unicorn

Sherlock

I suppose there are probably a great many people in the world who are worse off than me right now. There must be refugees starving somewhere. Children living on rubbish tips. Miners with lungs full of coal dust, former asbestos handlers, cancer patients, assault victims, trafficked prostitutes, any living being whose business brings it into contact with my brother, the list goes on. Undoubtedly there are a great many people in the world who are in far, far worse positions than me, suffering depths of shame and abject misery that have yet to even suggest themselves to me. Undoubtedly.

And I honestly could not care one atom less about them.

It _hurts_, do you understand? Not like any former withdrawal either, because those were temporary. Whether caused by lack of funds or laziness, it was only ever a matter of time before I could score again and it would be over. But now it just _hurts_. It hurts _all_ the time. Even more sickening than the sickness itself is the fact that it's _supposed_ to hurt. I'm supposed to be grateful that it hurts. Gets worse before it gets better, isn't that what they say? They talk bollocks when they say that kind of thing. It's not getting any better. They talk absolute bollocks.

Oh, and that's the worst of it; it's robbed me of all eloquence. It took me most of last Thursday just to reconstruct the phrase 'robbed of all eloquence'. Still, it passed the time. Last Thursday was bad. Last Thursday I was dressed and ready, had the money in my hand and got as far as they end of the street before I made myself turn around again. Then I sat in and tried to put all the separate, shattered words back into some semblance of order again. They don't want to form up anymore. I have to prepare myself if I want to speak with any coherence.

It's not my fault. My brain still works. As well as it always did. Better, in fact, without that old haze, without constantly having to think about how long since the last hit and where I can go for the next one. I'm on fine bloody form I just can't _do_ anything about it. Not that I ever could. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if that's why I went on the junk in the first place, but I don't remember, exactly.

For instance, I can't watch the news. Can't walk into a shop that sells newspapers. Granted, yes, most of the headlines are scandal or politics or disaster and there's nothing to really guess at.

But sometimes the stories are mysteries. Well, mysteries to those telling the stories. Like the one last week, maybe you heard about it, about the missing cash at a bank that had no indication of having been robbed? God, it was awful... Not the money, I don't mean _that_ was awful; banks really ought to expect it, they make such targets of themselves. No, what was awful was watching the news, sitting listening to that bimbo anchorwoman spew copy from the autocue, completely unaware she was telling the whole world everything they needed to know.

It was the cleaning lady, by the way. If you can still find it anywhere, watch the CCTV footage they showed on Five News; she's not doing it in that particular stretch of film, but those are the precise circumstances during which she can grab two thin handfuls from the counter and use them to pad her bra. No more than half a cup-size, for safety, but it all adds up. But what could I do? A call to the police. To, as the really _very_ friendly lady on the phone told me, _register my concern_. Anything stronger than that and I would have ended up in an interview room myself.

I can't afford that at the moment. Mycroft would find me and I'm avoiding him.

Oh, and don't judge me for resorting to Five News either; I had only hoped it might be vacuous enough not to torture me. I end up _throwing_ things at BBC... But that's exactly my point; what use is knowing and understanding and being able to put it all together if you can't make that knowledge _useful_?

All my life, growing up, I was referred to at home as a 'font of useless information'. And I took great exception to that because when I was young and relatively stupid, I believed that all information was useful, in its context. And the only way to make sure you were prepared when the context came around was to know everything you possibly could. I was good at it too, I was a bloody excellent student of how to know everything.

Look where it's gotten me.

Do you know what I'm doing today? To make the time go in and to try and find a place where there is _nothing_ to think about? I'm cleaning between the bathroom tiles, one scrupulous inch at a time. Look where knowing everything has gotten me.

It hurts. More than the muscle cramps and the shaking and the gastric disturbance and the brutal, degrading resurgence of a crushed libido and all the other hideous side-effects of making the shift from junkie to 'real person', it hurts. Do you understand? To be in this world and see it all with absolute clarity, and be able to do nothing about it? It's like having all the books in the world and nothing to read.

Do you...? No. No, you don't. How could you?

* * *

><p><span>Jim<span>

I need to find a new dry-cleaners. Again. There's only so many times you can bear up under the same narrow, suspicious eyes before the thought creeps into your head, _He thinks I'm a serial killer_. I'm looking at Mr Po now and thinking it's a shame to move on. He's very good at his job. And he's terrible at speaking English, so he hasn't been able to accuse me out loud yet, like the last one did.

The last one told me, in public, on a Saturday afternoon, how I seemed to spill an awful lot of cranberry juice. But until today, Mr Po has been able to keep his theories strictly private.

Why today? What's pushed him over the edge this time? Well, it could be the particular depth of the dried brown splatter on the cuffs of the shirt I'm dropping off. It could be, but he's seen that before. It could be the fact that this time I'm dropping off a woman's dress to, and this one with a large, sharp-edged tear in the body, another slash across the waist, as well as duplicates of the aforementioned splodges.

"My sister," I explain, clearly as I can. "Got mugged."

Well, it's half-true, really... The woman isn't my sister, but she was mugged. Well, she was attacked for an item of value she was carrying on her at the time. If that's your definition of mugged, she was mugged. Whether or not the muggers worked for Her Majesty or not really doesn't come into it. And if the item happened to be some high-level industrial espionage material of a military technology bent, that shouldn't matter either. We're talking about two men _mugging_ a _woman_ here. The world we live in, eh?

Anyway, Mr Po seems to accept my excuse... Sorry, _explanation_, he accepts my _explanation_. I move on to trying to make him understand I want separate tickets for the two items, but the same bill. He's not getting it. I lean in, and try not to do that thing where you just say the same thing only louder, but it's hard to resist.

"_My- sister-,_" I try, and Christ, I'm slowing down too... We're two sentences away from the fat tourist in his Man United shirt, burned all over and bawling, 'Uno Pint-oh-, por favor' over a Benidorm hotel bar...

Let's start over. "My sister will pick up her dress. But I'm paying for it, okay?"

Why? If you're smart and you know me you're asking yourself why the hell I'm getting the tab.

"Okay," says Mr Po, complete with the little thumb-and-forefinger sign that means the same thing. But until I've got two of his little green raffle tickets in my hand I'm holding my breath. "Your sister," he goes on, as he goes about writing up the details, "She is okay too?"

... What's your definition of _okay_? Because she's been all stitched up, she's conscious, she's on enough painkillers to leave the average Freesian happily humming 'Boogie Nights' to itself in the corner of the field. But she's not suffered any amnesia about the incident. She still remembers who it was that said to her she'd be alright, that there'd be nobody on her tail, that she definitely shouldn't carry her gun with her, because it would ruin the line of her dress.

I was getting blood on my cuffs and what was she doing? Not crying and writhing in pain, not cursing her attackers or the loss of what she'd stolen, not asking whether or not she'd live, oh no... No, she was glaring up at _me_ and saying, "Dress is ruined now, though, isn't it?"

"She's... a bit shaken," is how I put this to Mr Po. By some miracle he actually does put two tickets in my hand, though without explaining which is which. It's up to me to look over the counter and see which number matches my shirt. I put that one safely in my wallet and the other in my pocket and am _about_ to leave when he puts his hand on my sleeve.

"One moment please."

Oh, for God's sake... I knew it was too good to be true, that I'd managed to communicate those simple instructions almost first time. Christ knows what he's got coming for me. There's only so many ways _I_ can think of interpreting Two-Tickets-One-Bill, but this is _bound_ to be fecking interesting. And I'm not wrong, either; when he comes back I can already see something in his hand. It is, as far as I can tell, completely unrelated to anything we've been discussing. All I can see is a braided red string. The rest is in his palm and I'm sure this'll be fun...

But again, he surprises me. He's not even thinking about tickets and bills. He just holds this out to me, by the string, so I can see what looks like a small, lumpy white bead on the end of it. On closer inspection it's jade, and not lumpy, but carved. What's this?"

He calls it something that sounds uncomfortable like 'killing'. Then adds, "For your sister. Will protect her."

He's still holding it out, and smiling all over his face like he really believes this. Would it be callous to point out that the time for 'protection' has come and gone? That would be callous, I probably shouldn't do that... Anyway, the frigging thing's just going to hang there until I take it, so I have to. Mr Po is practically glowing, like he really has done his bit for human existence with this little gesture. Well, fair play to him. Me and mine, life we lead? We can always use a fresh good luck charm.

* * *

><p>[AN - I am posting this here, as an update on H:M, because I intend for it to be the first chapter of the sequel. That's if the sequel happens. But trust me, if a lion and unicorn get in a fight you want to be in the front row for it. So if you would read the sequel to Holmes:Moriarty, which I absolutely promise will be full of intrigue and danger and withdrawal and recriminations and thieving and nasty politics and sex and bullets flying and serial killers and Greg Lestrade in a London casino, drop me a line. By wire or pigeon or plain old message, let me know if you'll be hanging around for this. I tried it before and it honestly flopped. Let me know where I stand on this.

Much love, as ever - Sal.]


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